


persimmons

by radians



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 13:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radians/pseuds/radians
Summary: Kei chokes a little at the thought of Kuroo’s hand in his and thinks that he must be dreaming, because there is no way Kuroo would do something so stupid. Except there is a way, Kei realizes, with the unbearable warmth of Kuroo’s palm burning against his skin, and it’s called Kuroo Tetsurou is an idiot.(Or: Tsukishima Kei falls in love—allegedly. It’s inconvenient.)





	persimmons

**Author's Note:**

> au where tsukki and kuroo go to the same high school 
> 
> hello! welcome to my first completed fic ever. it's a mess. i'm a mess. i've been sitting on this for like 4 months now for no reason other than i've been too scared to post it. im still scared, but i guess it's time to live bravely! here goes nothing. 
> 
> section titles from erica jong's "the evidence"

It’s too hot to be the middle of September, Kei thinks, as he trudges towards the bus stop with his shirt plastered flush to his skin. He’s been walking for twenty minutes—in other words, five minutes too long; it should really only take fifteen minutes at most, but there’s something about the countryside that makes Kei walk a little bit slower, think a little bit slower, feel a little bit slower. As if the edges of his existence were coated in wild honey, and life keeps getting caught in the sticky sweet, plunging through in slow motion so gradually Kei can almost forget it’s there at all. 

Until one day it  _ is _ —there, painfully there. Like when you leave the milk out on the table until it’s rancid, rotting and reeking, and there’s nothing left to do but throw it out and wonder how you could be so stupid. 

Today is one of those days, Kei thinks, looking up at the cloudless sky and wishing. Wishing that he could go back, that he could go forward, that he could do anything other than walk unmoving through the neverending country, forever towards that bus stop at the end of the road to wait for a bus he can no longer take without thinking of dumb hair and stupid grins, honey eyes and persimmons. One of those days where even the thickest honey couldn’t stop the terrifying realization that life had come and gone in the blink of an eye—and that he had loved and lost and may never love that much again. May not have anything left to lose. 

And knowing, Kei thinks, how easy it would’ve been to prevent, is perhaps the worst feeling of all. 

  
  
  
  
**i. spring **

( _ is life a wound that dreams of being healed?) _

This is how it ends: one fateful Monday morning in the middle of March, when the winter cold meets the spring breeze in a torrent of blooming trees and songbirds singing. Kei is standing at a bus stop he’s never stood at before waiting for a bus he’s never taken before, thinking about all the things he’s done and all the things he has yet to do. Things like moving and scolding and leaving—things like falling and laughing and loving. Here, he looks back on his fifteen going on sixteen years of life and thinks it’s the end in the way only someone fifteen going on sixteen can think it’s the end; in the way everyone fifteen going on sixteen thinks it’s the end. And Kei thinks. Thinks until the bus pulls into the stop like the start of a dream, hissing warm exhaust into the hot air, the sigh of a dream long coming. 

It’s too hot to be the middle of March (later, Kei learns that it’s just always this hot) and the bus has no air conditioning—instead, there are four large fans that spit swirling torrents of air at Kei and the woman sitting next to him, angled just right to send strands of inky black hair whipping straight at his face. The woman has the decency to look apologetic, and Kei almost feels bad for her as she scrambles to keep her hair in check, pulling the strands together and wrapping them around to the other side of her neck. But she’s sorely lacking a rubber band, and her efforts are quickly ruined once more by the force of the fan.

She opens her mouth to apologize, again, but Kei cuts her off with a sigh. “It’s fine,” he says, and she turns away, embarrassed. 

Kei reaches into his bag to pull out his earphones. Before he can press the metal clasps of his bag closed, the bus lurches to a stop and sends the contents of his bag flying into the aisle toward the front of the bus. Kei watches this happen resignedly—the severity of the event does not quite process in his honeyed mind. He does not notice the boy that gets on the bus, or the way the boy’s hands brush over the spilled books so,  _ so _ gently. 

No, Kei does not notice—at least, not until the boy is standing over him, books in hand and a smile that spells  _ DANGER!  _ in flashing neon red like an omen (of what sort, Kei still hasn’t decided). Not until Kei looks up and the boy is blinking at him with hooded eyes that soften imperceptibly as they wash over him, not until his mouth opens to speak—

“You dropped something.” 

The words fall abruptly into Kei’s consciousness with an air of fatuity that Kei can’t be bothered to pick apart at the moment. He’s too focused on the way the boy nudges the books gently in Kei’s direction, and Kei wants to die—wishes desperately for the ground beneath him to split open and swallow him into hell itself, which, Kei predicts, would not burn even half as hot as the embarrassment that colors his face at this particular moment in time. A moment that, if this were a movie, would be filmed in slow motion, stretching three seconds into three eternities. But this is not a movie, and it is only through the universe’s vendetta against all things holy that Kei’s worst moment manages to drag on and on and  _ on. _

The boy smiles, and Kei gets the feeling he’s about to be torn apart.

The bus lurches unceremoniously, breaking the moment. Kei watches the boy stumble briefly forward before grabbing onto the back of the seat in front of him. He blinks, then shakes his head. 

“Thank you,” Kei manages stiffly, tugging his books away from the stranger and shoving them into his bag (that he makes sure to fasten) as quickly as possible. As if the faster he extracts himself from the situation, the faster he can forget the whole thing ever happened. (If only he could forget the whole thing ever happened.)

“No problem,” the boy says with a wink, and with a gust of air and a blink of an eye, he’s gone. 

Kei stares blankly at the absence. Blinks once, blinks twice. Wonders if the boy really just winked at him, or if he even really existed at all. 

And just like that, any semblance of peace in Kei’s life comes to a tragic, stuttering end. 

  
  


❊

  
  


The world lets Kei forget the whole thing ever happened for a grand total of fifty-one minutes and forty-six seconds, and then the boy is staring at Kei once again from the back of an idle classroom Kei has never been in before, smirk smug as ever. 

Kei’s eyes flit across the boy’s face, not sure what to focus on. He looks like the most beautiful train wreck Kei has ever seen and he knows he should look away,  _ wants  _ to look away, but can’t quite manage the feat, suddenly monumental. Now, Kei notices for the first time the mess of tangled black hair that falls across his face and wonders how on earth he manages to make a hairstyle  _ that  _ bad look that good. The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly when he catches Kei watching him—and then he’s winking, and Kei is turning away with a half-hearted  _ tch,  _ embarrassed by the highly unfortunate fact that he feels embarrassed in the first place. 

“Ah, Tsukishima-kun, is it?” The teacher says, standing up from his desk. “We’ve been expecting you. Could you introduce yourself to the class?” 

Every person in the class suddenly falls silent as they turn their gazes toward him. Kei bristles. 

“Sure,” he says, flippant. He makes a point not to let his eyes stray towards the mess of black hair. Switching to English, he introduces himself. “Tsukishima Kei. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to learning with you.” He punctuates it with a low bow before straightening, looking boredly around the classroom and making a point to skip right over the boy in the back with the shitty hair. 

The teacher smiles. “Tsukishima will be joining us for the remainder of the year,” he says, then turns to face Kei. “You’ll be sitting in the last seat of the fifth row, by the window next to Kuroo-kun. Kuroo, could you raise your hand?” 

The boy in the back leans forward, eyes glinting as he raises his arm. Kei scowls.

Kuroo never stops smiling.

  
  


❊

  
  


“You speak English really good,” Kuroo comments, low under his breath as Kei moves to sit down.

Kei doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t.

It isn’t until the bell rings and Kei is getting up to leave that he responds, “My mother is American.” Kuroo looks surprised for barely a second before his mouth is curling into a satisfied smile, and Kei knows nothing about Kuroo but he knows that he’s hot and he absolutely hates his guts. “And I speak English  _ well,”  _ Kei adds, because he’s petty and angry and Kuroo, the bastard, won’t fucking stop smiling.

“My mistake,” he says, the epitome of civility. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Kei would rather die than let him do something stupid like ask him where he’s from, or any equally ridiculous attempt at socialization. 

“Actually, forget I said anything,” Kei interjects, then lets his footsteps fall a little harder than they have to on his way out. As if to drown out anything Kuroo might attempt to add, which Kei has no interest in hearing. 

It works, for the most part. 

  
  


❊

  
  


The thing about the countryside is that new places and new people never stay new for long. 

In the city, there is always something new to see, someone new to meet. And Kei loved it—loved the anonymity, the privacy. The ability to fade into the background and see nothing, meet no one. To stay unknown and unknowing, aware but unconscious through the movements of his everyday—always the same yet different enough that Kei can’t quite slip into a mindless monotony. 

There is no such luxury here. Here, everything becomes too familiar too fast, and Kei doesn’t like knowing and being known. Doesn’t like the way the bus driver smiles at him in greeting; doesn’t like the way he responds with a curt nod, her name on the tip of his tongue instead of in the abyss of knowledge Kei doesn’t care to require. Kei doesn’t like the intimacy of seeing the same faces in the same places, doesn’t like the way eyes linger and questions prod, stripping him naked in the sweltering heat. 

No, Kei doesn’t like how difficult it is to forget, and to be forgotten. 

  
  


❊

  
  


Kei is halfway to falling asleep with his cheek pressed against the window of the bus when Kuroo plops down in the seat next to him with surprising ease. Kei’s eyes widen imperceptibly when he recognizes the birds’ nest of black hair sitting barely half a foot away from him, a lazy smile plastered on his face. Suddenly, Kei is wide awake. He sits up straighter and turns to look at Kuroo and his stupid grin. He can’t help but scowl at how close Kuroo is—their shoulders are almost touching—and immediately shifts his weight to put as much space between them as possible. 

“What are you listening to?” Kuroo asks, and Kei levels him with the most deadpan expression he can muster. Kuroo, however, is undeterred, and throws his head back to let out the most hideous laugh Kei has ever heard. 

“C’mon, what are you scared of? I won’t make fun of you, I promise,” Kuroo insists, his lips quirking up in a teasing smile.

Kei rolls his eyes. “As if I’d care.”

Kuroo grins, lowering his gaze. Kei doesn’t notice how Kuroo’s eyelashes flutter dangerously over his cheekbones. He  _ doesn’t _ . “Ah, but I think you would,” he says, looking entirely too self-satisfied. Kei wants to punch—or maybe kiss—the grin off Kuroo’s face. 

Kei settles instead for a haughty scoff. “Don’t think too hard. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself,” he shoots back, but reaches to pluck out his left earbud and hand it to Kuroo. Their fingers brush, and for a fleeting moment Kei considers letting his hand linger a little longer than it needs to. He pushes the thought away as soon as it forms, and snatches his hand back to his side with a vengeance. 

Kuroo feigns mock offence at Kei’s words (or maybe surprise at the honor of Kei’s offer—Kei can’t really tell, nor does he care enough to ask), but takes the earbud without further hesitation. Kei turns the volume up to compensate for the loss of an earphone and tries not to watch Kuroo’s reaction too intently. He allows himself swift glimpses and sideways glances at Kuroo as the song plays. For once, Kuroo’s not smiling—instead, he looks strangely concentrated, his gaze fixed unwavering at some undetermined point in the distance, his body motionless by Kei’s side. Somehow, he still manages to look as relaxed as ever, and Kei finds himself leaning forward in anticipation.

“I like it,” Kuroo says finally, and Kei releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

“Of course you do,” Kei says, a little too breathless, a little too relieved, because  _ of course he does.  _

“What’s it called?” Kuroo asks, leaning precariously into Kei’s space to peer at Kei’s phone. 

Kei unlocks his phone and holds it up to show Kuroo the song that is playing, and Kuroo nods. Kei starts to pull away, but his phone is no longer in his hands—

“You should listen to this, you’d like it,” Kuroo says, typing something quickly into Kei’s phone. It takes a moment for Kei to get over the initial shock of having his phone stolen, and that moment is all it takes for Kuroo to pull up a song Kei’s never heard of before and press play. 

Kei makes an undignified noise and swipes at Kuroo’s stupid, cackling face, dislodging his earphones in the process. Kuroo tries to hold the phone as far away as possible, but Kei’s arms are longer by a couple centimeters and he manages to snatch it back with minimal yelling. 

“But I’m serious! You’ll like it, I promise.”

“No,” Kei replies immediately, but glances at the title of the song before he shoves his phone back into his pocket. 

And if Kei remembers the title of the song Kuroo showed him a little too well, nobody needs to know.

  
  


❊

  
  


“ _ Hey Tsukki— is that a new song _ ?” Yamaguchi asks, yawning in the corner of Kei’s screen. 

Kei looks up from his homework and notices the song that’s playing. Immediately pressing skip, Kei replies, “It’s nothing. How are you?” 

Yamaguchi looks at him strangely, and Kei knows Yamaguchi knows it’s not nothing. Knows, and hates that he knows. Thankfully, Yamaguchi doesn’t comment on it, instead launching into a detailed re-enactment of something unfortunate that happened to Kageyama, and Kei can’t help but laugh. 

“ _ How about you? What’s the countryside like? _ ” Yamaguchi asks, and Kei feels his chest tighten.

“Slow. And hot. Too hot,” he says simply. “And it’s not  _ really  _ the countryside. There are still like, buildings and shit. Occasionally. It’s more like a really small town located in the country,” Kei adds. Doesn’t think about mentioning Kuroo, because that would be the same as mentioning Kuroo, which is wholly unthinkable, hence why Kei is adamantly  _ not  _ thinking about it.

“ _ Why do you look like you’re constipated _ ?” 

Kei scowls. “Shut up, Yamaguchi,” he says, and watches Yamaguchi stifle a laugh. 

  
  


❊

  
  


He catches Kuroo humming in class one day and pretends he doesn’t recognize the tune. In fact, he pretends he doesn’t hear it at all. 

  
  


❊

  
  


Their relationship—if it can be called a relationship at all—continues in the same fashion: with Kuroo smirking at him with his dumb hair and stupid eyes and Kei’s swift dismissals being the only thing preserving his dignity. They run into each other on the bus a few more times until Kei learns to leave a little earlier and walk a little faster to avoid Kuroo’s piercing gaze. In class, Kuroo has the decency not to bother him, at least while Takeda-sensei is teaching. Kei takes it upon himself to ensure there is no down time before or after class during which Kuroo could possibly monopolize to his advantage. 

It’s comfortable, Kei thinks, and he wants it to stay this way. Doesn’t want to let himself think too much about what might happen if he gives Kuroo the chance to say much more than a  _ hey  _ every once in a while. 

But the universe has never given a shit about what Kei wants, and so two weeks later Takeda-sensei passes out a piece of paper that effectively ruins Kei’s plans to avoid Kuroo for the rest of eternity. 

It’s a group project—two to three people per group, one five to ten minute video visualising an English poem of their creation. Kei doesn’t need to look to his right to know Kuroo’s staring at him. 

“No,” Kei says without a second thought, standing up to leave for his next class. Advanced chemistry. He heads down the hall and towards the stairs. 

“Tsukki, you left your pen!” Kuroo calls from the classroom, and Kei walks faster. 

  
  


❊

  
  


“Excuse me, could I borrow a pen?” Kei asks, setting his bag down next to him. 

He’s met with slanted, narrow eyes that cut through Kei’s nonchalance, leaving the hair on his neck standing on end. They soften after a tense second, flicking away as he rifles through an owl shaped bag. “One second,” he says, before procuring a pen from said owl-shaped bag. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Kei replies, gingerly taking the pen with a nod of his head, and spends the rest of class trying to stop thinking about the way Kuroo said his name. 

  
  


❊

  
  


When Kei walks by the gym one afternoon, he doesn’t expect to see Kuroo with a volleyball in hand, dressed in a black shirt and offensively bright red volleyball shorts.

Except he does expect it—isn’t even the least bit surprised that Kuroo and him have nothing yet everything in common, because the world is cruel that way. Because of course he does. Because Kei lives with his heart shut away, lives with his low expectations and empty justifications so that when he hits rock bottom he can pretend he was always there to begin with. Pretend there was no tragic downfall. Because Kei knows he can’t keep living this way and the world knows this too—knows that Kuroo makes him look at the edge and think about jumping in. And that is exactly why Kei sees Kuroo with his stupid hair and stupid eyes and stupid volleyball shorts and turns away, looks away. Walks faster toward the school gate. Walks away.

So when Kuroo calls his name and runs, bag slung over his shoulder toward Kei, he walks faster and slower at the same time, feels himself being torn apart as his mind runs an endless loop of  _ run/stay/run/stay/run/stay— _

_ “ _ Tsukki!” Kuroo says, catching up to Kei far too quickly and Kei isn’t ready, he’s not— “Let’s walk together.” He falls into step next to Kei as if it’s something he does everyday, matching Kei’s pace with an ease that makes Kei’s stomach turn. 

“Kuroo-san,” Kei greets with a curt nod. “I know it’s hard to remember things when your brain is a nesting ground for whatever it is you call your hair, but my name is  _ Tsukishima _ .”

Kuroo pouts. “ _ Tsukki, _ ” Kuroo repeats with intention, “you’re so mean to me.” 

Kei makes a show of looking around in dramatized confusion. “I’m sorry, who?” Kei asks with a sardonic turn of his lips, all sarcasm and mockery. 

He does not expect Kuroo to match his expression, much less stay undeterred by his side. “Don’t tell me no one has ever called you Tsukki before.” 

“You’re pathetic,” Kei says, but the wonder building in his mind is all knowing, overflowing, and his words don’t come out nearly as derisive as he’d meant them to. 

Kuroo’s eyes twinkle with a senseless sort of mischief. “It’s called being  _ nice. _ ” 

Kei can’t help the heat that spreads across his cheeks. “This is harassment.” 

Kuroo laughs. “Is it?” 

Kei can’t bring himself to say  _ yes, it is,  _ because there’s something in the way Kuroo stuffs his hands into his pockets that makes Kei think Kuroo would actually leave him alone if he asked. And while Kei absolutely wants Kuroo to leave him alone, the thought of Kuroo turning to leave right now leaves him a little helpless, a little breathless. So instead he says nothing at all, and concentrates instead on the heat emanating from Kuroo’s side, the sweat that beads slowly at the curve of his jaw before sliding down his neck and disappearing into the thin material of his shirt. Kuroo is silent, looking straight ahead, his face disturbingly expressionless, and Kei almost says something, anything, just to break the silence. 

“I think it’s going to rain,” Kuroo says suddenly before Kei can get the chance to say something first. Just as Kei looks up to see the heavy gray clouds looming above them, he feels a single drop of rain fall against the corner of his eye.

“What did I say about thinking,” Kei mutters as another drop lands on the rim of his glasses.

Kuroo’s eyes widen imperceptibly before reverting to their regularly scheduled laziness, grin growing wider all the while. “You’re right—my mistake. I  _ know _ it’s going to rain,” he says, and Kei frowns. 

“I don’t have an umbrella.” He doesn’t remember seeing rain on the forecast this morning, but what would life be if not for unnecessary amounts of surprises? A crease forms between his brow at the thought of walking in the rain. He considers ducking into a konbini somewhere to wait it out, but there is no guarantee that the rain will let up before it gets dark. A thousand and one possibilities run through the background of his mind, and they all come to a screeching halt when Kuroo opens his mouth. 

“Funny, I don’t either. Guess we’ll just have to run,” Kuroo says, and holds his hand out for Kei to take. 

Kei looks at Kuroo’s hand dubiously. “What, you need me to hold your hand?” he sneers, and ignores the way his voice cracks, his heartbeat quickens. The soft drizzle picks up, and suddenly torrents of rain are pattering down on them, and Kei thinks distantly that maybe he should start carrying an umbrella with him no matter the forecast, just in case. 

Kuroo scoffs, but doesn’t withdraw his hand. “I’m wounded. I try to be a nice person and this is what I get in return,” Kuroo says solemnly, before grabbing Kei’s hand anyway. Kei chokes a little at the thought of Kuroo’s hand in his and thinks that he must be dreaming, because there is no way Kuroo would do something so stupid. Except there is a way, Kei realizes, with the unbearable warmth of Kuroo’s palm burning against his skin, and it’s called  _ Kuroo Tetsurou is an idiot. _

Suddenly Kei is all too aware of how cold his hands are, how thin his fingers are. If Kuroo notices, he doesn’t mention it—instead, he squeezes Kei’s hand once, breaks into a devious grin, and then he’s running through the rain, water splashing everywhere as he pulls Kei along like this is a romantic comedy or something adjacent. 

Kei can’t see clearly from behind his rain-covered glasses, so he holds on tighter than he needs to and pretends holding Kuroo’s hand is anything but an indulgence of the sweetest kind. 

The overhang of the bus stop is in sight when Kei trips on a bump in the sidewalk and pitches forward into Kuroo. “I literally hate you,” Kei screams, and Kuroo must realize that Kei’s falling before Kei even realizes it, because he’s inexplicably there to catch him, arms outstretched and waiting. Kei grabs Kuroo’s shirt out of pure instinct, pulling Kuroo close, too close. He crashes into Kuroo’s chest in a flurry of rain and curses, and contemplates death for a second time. It’s becoming an alarming pattern, really—Kei landing himself in embarrassing situations at unfortunate moments when Kuroo is around to witness, which results in Kei wishing for death as Kuroo looks on in amusement because he is a demon who enjoys displays of human misery. Kei’s misery, in particular. 

Kuroo catches Kei with more ease than he has any right to, and Kei is too busy falling to notice the blush that graces his face, the bob of his throat as he swallows. Kei doesn’t notice any of these things—instead, he sees Kuroo laugh a little too loudly, smile a little too brightly, and thinks that Kuroo lives a little too bravely for someone dripping cascades of rainwater. 

“Falling for me already?” Kuroo asks, smirking, as he pulls Kei upright. Kei tries not to think about Kuroo’s hands on his arm, around his waist; tries not to think about the way Kuroo’s shirt sticks to his abs or the fact that Kuroo can probably see Kei’s lack thereof. 

Kei scowls. “Did you even hear what I just said?” 

He winks, because he is actively trying to kill Kei. “It’s okay, I know I’m irresistible.” 

Kei lets go of Kuroo’s shirt. “More like insufferable,” Kei says, taking a step back as he looks away and blames the heat in his cheeks on the warm rain.

Kuroo just laughs, loud and obnoxious and so, so beautiful. “Come to my house,” he says, quietly enough that Kei almost thinks he’s hearing things. “It’s closer to here than yours, and I can let you borrow a change of clothes. We could also start working on that English project,” he explains, and Kei hates that he doesn’t need to think about it to know that he’ll agree.

“I never agreed to working with you for the project,” Kei points out, and Kuroo looks at him like he’s already won.

“Ah, but you have no choice. Everyone else is already in groups. Except for you,” he says, looking at Kei pointedly, “and me.” 

Kei knows he’s right—he’d tried to ask Takeda-sensei if it would be possible for him to complete the project alone, but Takeda-sensei had gotten all concerned and asked if he was having trouble making friends. The only thing Kei was less interested in than making friends was having Takeda-sensei attempt to help him make friends, so Kei just said  _ nevermind  _ and left. 

When they finally reach the overhang of the bus stop, they’re both completely drenched. Distantly, Kei thinks they probably could’ve just walked and saved their energy. Kei’s glasses are covered in a film of water, through which he can see the blurred shape of Kuroo standing in front of him, his hair plastered to his forehead in a rare sight, the flare of a streetlight in the distance casting Kuroo in a halo of bright red. 

“So?” Kuroo asks suddenly, and Kei turns to look at him. 

Kei knows exactly what Kuroo’s asking, but he pretends he doesn’t anyway. “So what?” he asks, busying himself by attempting to clean the lens of his glasses with the fabric of his shirt. 

“You never answered me earlier.” The rain has slowed to a casual drizzle, and Kei curses Kuroo again in the privacy of his mind for making them run through the pouring rain as if they were in some bad romcom or another. The only reason Kei doesn’t say his misgivings aloud is because when he puts his glasses back on he’s assaulted by the image of Kuroo standing next to him, dripping wet and panting, and he has no right looking so beautiful when he  _ should  _ just look like a drowned cat. 

(Kei is allergic to cats.) 

And so Kei doesn’t say anything at all because he doesn’t trust himself to  _ not  _ say something stupid or embarassing or worse, both. He can feel Kuroo staring at the side of his face, and he wills himself to let him. He looks down, coy—not that he’ll ever admit to it—and revels in the way Kuroo’s mouth parts at the motion.

“The bus is here,” Kei announces, because it is, and Kuroo smiles because he already knows the answer anyway.

“Is it? Guess we should get going then,” Kuroo says, reaching down to grab Kei’s hand. 

And Kei lets him, but he makes sure to mutter “idiot” under his breath because god forbid Kuroo starts thinking Kei likes him or something. But when the trees turn red and Kuroo is miles away and all Kei can think about is Kuroo’s stupid grin, he’ll realize that he was the biggest idiot of them all. 

  
  


❊

  
  


Kuroo’s house is one of many houses arranged in a row up a rather steep hill. The facade is more traditional than Kei’s used to, with a dark mahogany frame and sloping, tiled roofs. It’s just large enough to be comfortable for a family of three (Kuroo lives with his father and his grandmother, Kei learns on the way) but still small enough to still be considered cozy. Kei trails idly after Kuroo as he enters, the floorboards creaking charmingly beneath his feet.

“Let me go get a towel. Wait here.” Kuroo slips off his shoes before disappearing around the corner. 

Kei lingers awkwardly in the entryway, gaze darting around but never settling, feeling too much like an intruder to look at anything too carefully. Eventually, Kei’s eyes settle on the clothesline hanging in the backyard, pulled taut between the fence and a persimmon tree, visible through a sliding glass door located next to the kitchen. Kei sees Kuroo’s volleyball jersey, bright red with the number 1 emblazoned in a blinding white. 

“Here you go,” Kuroo says from beside him, and Kei starts. Reluctantly accepts the pale yellow towel Kuroo hands him; notices Kuroo has dried his hair a little. It’s slowly going back to its usual chaotic state, and Kei can’t help but marvel at the fact that Kuroo’s hair just  _ does that _ . _ By itself.  _ “Once you’re not dripping wet anymore we can see about getting you a change of clothes.” 

Kei tries not to let his thoughts linger too long on the concept of wearing Kuroo’s clothes and starts drying himself off. Starts with his glasses, because he can’t stand not being able to see, and then moves to his hair. Kuroo watches silently from the side the entire time, and Kei hates how flustered he feels when he notices Kuroo’s stare. 

“Come on,” Kuroo says, gesturing for Kei to follow as he climbs up the stairs. “My clothes probably won’t fit you that well, but it’s probably better than wearing wet clothes.” 

Kei isn’t sure about that, but he feels like he should thank Kuroo anyway. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do this.” 

Kuroo winks at him, and Kei gets the sudden urge to take it back. “I  _ told  _ you I’m always this nice,” he says, and Kei almost does take it back—but then Kuroo’s throwing a shirt and sweatpants haphazardly in Kei’s direction, and the words die on Kei’s tongue. He turns the clothing over in his hands—the shirt is red and worn, and the sweatpants unexpectedly soft.

He looks up then, and immediately regrets it—Kuroo is taking off his shirt, and Kei short circuits. He wants to look away, but can’t help but stare—and it hits him, full force, how stunning Kuroo really is. Kuroo’s skin is a beautiful shade of gold in the weaning sunlight, dusted with freckles and the occasional mole—one on his left shoulder blade, another at the nape of his neck, and another at the dip of his waist. And Kei thinks that if he could, he would spend all day mapping the constellations on Kuroo’s skin, memorizing each and every blemish until they could be the stars in the night sky behind Kei’s eyelids every time he closes his eyes. 

“Um,” Kei starts, Kuroo’s clothes in hand, standing awkwardly by the door. “Is there a—”

Kuroo turns around, and Kei realizes that opening his mouth at that moment might have been the worst decision he’s ever made. Because Kuroo is still shirtless, and now he’s looking at Kei with his stupid lazy honey eyes. And every coherent thought that Kei might’ve had is gone—lost beyond the abilities of comprehension. Because Kuroo fucking Tetsurou is shirtless, and Kei is so, so fucked.

“Yes?” Kuroo asks, arms poised with the hem of his own shirt in hand, frozen in time as he watches Kei, slowly, gently, as Kei struggles to form words. Struggles to think about anything except how his lips might feel against Kuroo’s neck. On Kuroo’s chest. On those heavenly abs. 

“I—” Kei starts, and stops, because it’s suddenly too hot and Kuroo is too naked and Kei is too gay,  _ so  _ gay. 

Kuroo smiles. “Yes?” he repeats, and Kei knows that Kuroo knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Kei says breathlessly, and flees. Hears Kuroo laughing from the hallway, and doesn’t dare look back. 

  
  


❊

  
  


Kei is sitting at the dining room table, wearing Kuroo’s bright red shirt that is entirely too loose on him and Kuroo’s soft black sweatpants that end halfway down his calves, wondering how exactly he ended up here. He thinks about that day when they first met on the bus—how the sun was glaring down at them, how that woman’s hair kept flying into Kei’s face. About how Kuroo stood over him, books in hand and a sly smile on his face, and those wild honey eyes. Connects the dots from then to now—from winks to Kuroo’s hand in Kei’s, from stupid hair and stupid grins to the dip of his waist and golden skin—and realizes that he does not dislike Kuroo half as much as he thought he did. As much as he should. 

“Would you like some hoshigaki?” Kuroo asks, holding out a bag of dried persimmons, sliced into wilted slivers dusted with crusted sugar. They reflect flecks of technicolor orange across Kuroo’s cheeks, warm and dazzling and crystal sweet. 

Kei wrinkles his nose. “I don’t like dried persimmon.”

Kuroo shrugs, reaching his hand in and taking out a slice. “So do you like regular persimmon?” he asks, biting into the dried fruit while staring straight at Kei.

“Sure.” 

Kuroo squints at him for a second, and Kei feels like he’s being taken apart from the inside out. “I agree. Fresh persimmon is so much better. Too bad we have to wait until October before they’ll be ready.”

Kei doesn’t know how to reply, so he doesn’t. 

Kuroo hums, swallowing. “You look good,” he says, lips curling into a teasing smile.

_ What the fuck,  _ Kei thinks, because  _ what the fuck.  _ “The shirt is too big for me,” Kei points out instead, avoiding Kuroo’s stare. 

“Details,” Kuroo says with a wave of his hand, and sits down across from Kei. Pops another slice of dried persimmon into his mouth; swallows. 

Kei watches the bob of his Adam’s apple, and clears his throat. “Did you have any ideas for the poem in mind?” 

“Not really,” Kuroo says, shrugging. “Persimmons, maybe?” he suggests, lifting the bag of sliced hoshigaki. 

Kei squints at the fruit, incredulous. “Do you really like persimmons that much?” 

“I think there’s something poetic in the way that they’re unbearably bitter and sour until they’ve ripened and you absolutely should not try eating them until they’re completely ripe, sure,” Kuroo concedes.

“You’ve eaten a persimmon before it was ripe?”

Kuroo blinks. Freezes, hoshigaki halfway to his mouth. It would be endearing, Kei thinks, if he was in the business of admitting embarrassing things. “Hasn’t everyone?”

Kei snorts. “Some people aren’t dumbasses.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend it.” 

“I think that’s a given, Kuroo-san,” Kei says with a snicker, and pretends he doesn’t find Kuroo’s ensuing pout anything less than endearing. 

  
  


❊

  
  


They talk until Kei’s phone rings, his mother gushing worriedly from the other end of the line with inquiries about Kei’s whereabouts. Kei excuses himself and gathers his things, leaving with Kuroo’s shirt and sweatpants and a bright red umbrella that Kuroo had lent him, citing the rain. Doesn’t realize until he’s walking into his room that he left his wet clothes hanging in Kuroo’s bathroom.

  
  


❊

  
  


Kuroo isn’t in class the next day, and Kei has way too many feelings about it—annoyance, mostly, because he doesn’t want to look at Kuroo’s red umbrella or his red shirt or his sweatpants that are too short on Kei for any longer than necessary, but also a twinge of something akin to disappointment that Kei pushes to the back of his mind as soon as he feels it. After all, it’s not like they’re friends or anything, and Kuroo’s existence has been nothing less than a  _ very  _ persistent pain in Kei’s life. And will continue to be just that for the foreseeable future, thanks to the conveniently wholly inconvenient ordeal of the English project that is now  _ their  _ English project. 

“Tsukishima-kun.” The world comes back into focus, and Kei looks up to see Akaashi standing by his desk. “Kuroo-san asked me to give this to you.”    
  


He hands over a plastic bag with Kei’s clothes—now dry—folded neatly inside, topped off with a folded note. Kei opens the note to see Kuroo’s shitty handwriting, in dark red Sharpie:

_ sorry I couldn’t give you this myself—I’m sick. before you say “I told you so,” just know that it was totally worth it :)  _

_ \- K. T.  _

Kei feels his face heat up and crushes the note in his palm, hands shaking. He can’t quite figure out what exactly Kuroo means, but he knows enough to know that he should  _ not  _ be this embarrassed by it. Knows enough to know exactly why he’s this embarrassed by it. Akaashi raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow, and Kei wants to punch Kuroo in the face for making him feel things. Wants to punch himself in the face for letting Kuroo make him feel things. Wants a lot of things, not all of which are as violent as they should be. 

“Are you alright?” Akaashi asks, eyes sweeping over Kei in mild concern. 

Kei takes a deep breath, dropping the crumpled note back into the bag. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you, Akaashi-san.” 

Akaashi’s gaze lingers for a moment longer, dark eyes staring straight into his soul. Kei shifts uncomfortably under Akaashi’s stare, wondering if perhaps he said something wrong until Akaashi smiles, bright and genuine and absolutely devious. “If you say so,” he says, and turns to take his seat in the desk next to Kei. 

  
  


❊

  
  


English feels strange without Kuroo’s presence in the next seat over.

There is a Kuroo-shaped hole in Kei’s periphery—every time he looks up, he expects to see a nest of tangled black hair and Kuroo’s shifty eyes, staring. Without it, Kei feels strangely off kilter—as if his life has suddenly gotten a little too light, a little too quiet, a little too spacious. Not enough chaotic energy, Kei thinks. 

The thought sends a jolt up Kei’s spine. He hits rewind, and lets  _ not enough chaotic energy  _ run through his mind again. He feels his jaw drop, and hears the part of him that craves control over every aspect of his life scream into the void. Dies a little, inside. Tries to backtrack,  _ choose alternative route _ , but the idea is too shocking to shake. 

The realization that he’s gotten devastatingly used to Kuroo hits him full force when he walks into class a week later to find Kuroo Tetsurou smirking back at him once again and feels  _ relieved.  _ As if he cares about Kuroo’s wellbeing, or something equally preposterous. As if he actually wants to see Kuroo and his stupid hair.

“Did you miss me?” Kuroo asks, leaning forward on his elbows as Kei approaches. 

“No,” Kei says a little too quickly, a little too loudly. 

Kuroo’s grin grows wider than Kei thought possible. “Liar.” 

Kei’s heart skips a beat as he sets down his bag with a  _ thump _ . “Whatever,” he says, tugging on the clasps harder than he needs to, pulling out the red umbrella and the red shirt and the soft sweatpants. “Here’s your stuff back.” He tosses them in Kuroo’s general direction, and pretends not to be impressed when Kuroo manages to catch them. Pretends he wasn’t aiming for Kuroo’s stupid face. 

  
  


❊

  
  


“Did you know persimmons are supposed to boost your immune system?” Kuroo asks, leaning back in his chair, stretching out like an over-sized cat. “Ironic, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Kei agrees, watching Kuroo as his shirt rides up to expose a sliver of tanned skin and sculpted abs. Quickly looks away, diverting his attention to the world beyond the window. “You know what else would boost your immune system? Not getting drenched in the rain,” Kei jabs, because he is still a little mad. Mostly at the fact that he can no longer look at Kuroo without seeing his bare back, strong and smooth and beautiful; without thinking associated embarrassing thoughts, warm and hot and uncomfortable.   
  
Kuroo laughs. “But it was fun, wasn’t it?” he asks, nudging Kei’s leg with his foot. Kei kicks him in the shin. 

Before Kei can answer that  _ no, it was absolutely not fun at all,  _ Takeda-sensei enters the classroom, flushed and breathless with a stack of papers in his arms. 

“Sorry I’m late, the copy machine was jammed. Can someone help me pass these out? I’d like to pick up where we left off yesterday in  _ Ulysses. _ ” 

Kuroo flashes him one last smile before turning to face the board with a satisfied expression, leaving Kei, cheeks pink and burning, scowling out the window. 

  
  


❊

  
  


Life goes on as normal—Kei keeps leaving for school ten minutes earlier than necessary, starts taking the long way home to avoid passing by the third gym. Absolutely doesn’t think about Kuroo or their English project. He studies as hard as usual, finishing all his assignments and starting all his projects as soon as he gets them—all except one. He procrastinates their English project like he’s never procrastinated before, terrified of the idea of being in an enclosed space alone with Kuroo, lest he accidentally incite  _ The Rain Incident _ part two. Lest Kuroo does something worse than hold Kei’s hand, because Kei knows he won’t have the heart to stop him. 

So when Kuroo appears in his classroom during lunch break to ask whether he’s free to work on the project, Kei comes up with an excuse. “I have a chemistry test tomorrow that I need to study for,” he says, holding up his advanced chemistry textbook. 

Kuroo nods, understanding. “Ah, I remember those days. I could probably help you study, if you’d like. I was top of my class when I took that my first year,” he offers, and Kei looks at him dubiously. “What? Stop looking at me like you can’t believe I’m actually kind of smart,” Kuroo huffs. “I’m probably better than you at chemistry, actually.” 

Kei’s eye twitches. “I am perfectly good at chemistry and I don’t need your help.” 

“That eighty-nine on your quiz says otherwise,” Kuroo sing-songs, and Kei quickly covers the marking on the quiz sticking out of his textbook. “I swear I’m a good teacher,” Kuroo says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“The eighty-nine is an outlier. And no.” 

Kuroo pouts, and Kei wishes he didn’t find the curve of Kuroo’s lip so attractive. He can feel his resolve slipping with every passing second, knowing that if he doesn’t extract himself from the situation in the next couple of minutes he might actually say  _ yes.  _ “I guarantee you’ll ace the test if you just let me help you,” Kuroo insists. 

“You’re awfully confident for someone who got a seventy-two on their last English test,” Kei points out, defensive. 

“That’s different. English is actually  _ hard. _ ” Kuroo pauses, and Kei thinks he’s finally dropped the matter before his mouth curls into a feral grin, eyes twinkling with mischief. Kei’s eyes widen as he swallows, terrified of whatever is going to come out of Kuroo’s mouth next. “It’s okay you don’t want my help though, I totally understand. You’re probably just embarrassed by how bad you are at chemistry—I know chemistry can be really difficult for some people,” Kuroo says, and Kei  _ knows  _ he’s being baited but can’t help the way his jaw clenches at the way Kuroo says  _ some people _ . Knows, but bites anyway. 

“Fine. I’ll let you study with me or whatever.  _ If _ you can keep up,” Kei says, standing up to leave, and if he pushes past Kuroo’s shoulder with a little more force than necessary, Kuroo doesn’t mention it—just grins, infuriatingly. 

  
  


❊

  
  


It turns out that Kuroo is actually  _ really  _ good at chemistry—good enough that Kei has the decency to feel bad for doubting him in the first place. Kuroo’s explanations are succinct and effective, making even the most difficult concepts seem effortless. And by the end of their study session, that’s exactly how Kei feels—effortless. As if he didn’t just spend the past three hours drilling complex chemical theorems into his brain.

Kuroo, Kei learns, tends to have that effect on him. 

When Kei gets his test back, he can’t decide whether to be happy or frustrated at how well he did. 

(“Congrats!” Kuroo says later that day when Kei shows him his paper. “I told you I was a great teacher.”

“Yeah,” Kei agrees reluctantly, “you are. Thank you for helping me.”

Kuroo beams. “Anytime, Tsukki.”

“Don’t call me that,” Kei mutters, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.)

Soon enough, one study session turns into two turns into more than Kei would like to admit. Turns into Kei dropping by Kuroo’s nearly everyday after school, into Kei waiting for Kuroo outside the third gym for volleyball practice to end, into taking the bus home after school together. Turns into playful nudges and friendly hand-holding and the occasional goodbye hug. Turns Kei’s attraction to Kuroo into a full-blown crush, shattering his practiced aloofness into a million shards of angry vulnerabilities, sharp against his skin. 

Kei has never felt so weak before. 

So when Kuroo asks if Kei wants to hang out with him, Bokuto, and Akaashi during the weekend, Kei says yes before he can pause and realize the implications. Says yes, and watches Kuroo’s face brighten, ignoring the way it makes his chest tighten and his insides warm. Says yes, and means it.

  
  


❊

  
  


**handsome cat [10:43 pm] **

_ Hope u don’t mind that I put in my number when u weren’t looking ;) _

_ I thought having each others contact info would make planning for next week easier _

**tsukki <3 [11:28 pm]**

_ why are you asking me whether i mind after you’ve already done it? _

_ and i hope you know i’m changing your contact name to “shitty hair”. _

**Kuroo-san [11:35 pm]**

_ Tsukki is so mean to meeeee _ ｡ﾟ(｡ﾉωヽ｡)ﾟ｡

  
  


❊

  
  


Meeting Bokuto Koutarou for the first time might just be the most terrifying experience of Kei’s life. 

Kei has had to deal with a lot of loud, obnoxious, and obnoxiously loud people in his life (the general memory of Hinata surfaces, along with the beginnings of a headache), but Bokuto has to be the loudest, most obnoxious person he has ever met.

He is minding his own business—leaning against the tree outside the gym and waiting for Kuroo to get out of practice when someone— _ something _ —screeches his name in the most unholy sound to ever disgrace his ears. It’s the only warning he gets before two hundred pounds of volleyball ace is barreling toward him in a flash of red and black and  _ is that silver? _ , closing the once significant distance between them at an alarming rate. 

“TSUKKI!” It screams, and Kei wonders if this is how he dies. 

“Woah, Bo, slow down,” he hears Kuroo say, and the obnoxious boy skids to a halt inches away from Kei’s face.

He didn’t think it was possible for anyone to have hair worse than Kuroo’s, but Bokuto’s is worse and  _ then some _ . Kei has never believed in miracles, but the fact that the school actually  _ allows _ this abomination cannot be explained in any other way. Though Kei would hesitate to call anything related to Bokuto’s hair a miracle _ .  _ Maybe something like divine punishment would be more accurate. 

“How,” Kei splutters, gesturing wildly in the general direction of Bokuto’s hair. 

Bokuto is unfazed. In fact, he  _ preens _ . “It’s cool, isn’t it?” 

In hindsight, it isn’t particularly surprising that this is Kuroo’s best bro (not to be confused with Kuroo’s best  _ friend, _ Kozume Kenma, whom Kei has only met twice but is starting to think would be a better associate than Kuroo). 

“It’s absolutely horrible,” Kei says, but Kuroo must have known that’s what he was going to say, because Kuroo has his hands clamped tightly around Bokuto’s ears. 

Kuroo lets his hands fall to his sides once Kei is done speaking. “Tsukki thinks it looks awesome,” he lies, and Bokuto beams.

“I can’t wait to hang out with you this weekend! We’re going to get along great!” Bokuto exclaims with far more enthusiasm than any self respecting high schooler should ever have, and Kei regrets everything he’s ever done to lead him up to this point. 

  
  


❊

  
  


“You could have at least warned me,” Kei says later, as he walks with Kuroo to the bus stop. 

Kuroo smirks, and Kei already knows he’s going to regret saying anything at all. “Where’s the fun in that?” he asks, lip curling into a smug smile. Kei hates him.

“I hate you,” he says, because he does. 

“I love you too,” Kuroo cackles, and Kei pretends not to notice the way his heart skips a beat. 

  
  


❊

  
  


**Tsukki~ [5:04 pm]**

_ can’t skype tomorrow afternoon. can you do later tomorrow evening? _

**Yamaguchi [5:11 pm]**

_ ya sure! y did smth come up? _

**Tsukki~ [5:15 pm]**

_ i’m doing something with a friend. _

Kei presses send without realizing what he’s said, not until it’s too late. Not until his phone is ringing with Yamaguchi’s face displayed across his screen.

“_A_ _friend?_” Yamaguchi asks the moment Kei brings his phone up to his ear. 

Kei curses under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Is Kuroo a friend? The thought seems preposterous, and yet the pedantic in Kei’s heart can’t justly call Kuroo simply an  _ acquaintance,  _ or a  _ classmate.  _ Sighing, he concedes. “Yes, a friend.” 

Yamaguchi, the fucker, giggles. “ _ You? Making friends? _ ”

Kei refuses to react. “Yes, I know right, God forbid.” 

“ _ Listen, I’m proud of you. Sometimes I worry that you’re out there all alone, being emo and studying yourself to death. I’m glad that’s not the case, _ ” he chirps, and Kei sighs. Yamaguchi is probably right—if it had been anyone but Kuroo, Kei wouldn’t be having this conversation with Yamaguchi right now. If it had been anyone but Kuroo, they would’ve given up after the first three times Kei said no, and Kei would’ve been fine. If it had been anyone but Kuroo. “ _ Tell me about your new friends! _ ”

Kei bites his lip. “There’s nothing to tell,” he lies, but doesn’t quite know he’s lying—hasn’t realized how much there is to tell. Has pushed everything he could tell into the recesses of his mind, afraid to let them see the light of day. Afraid to say the words that would make it real. 

“ _ Oh come on, are you really going to make me do all the work for you?”  _ At Kei’s silence, he lets out an exasperated breath. “ _ What are their names? What are they like?”  _

“Well. There’s only really one friend,” Kei says, and is immediately horrified by the idea of Kuroo being his only friend. Backpedals. “Two actually. Akaashi and Kuroo. Akaashi is kind of like me—he’s really quiet, but also really observant. Scary good at reading people. He’s easy to be around, I guess.” 

“ _ He sounds really cool! What about Kuroo?”  _

How would Kei describe Kuroo? How  _ could _ Kei describe Kuroo? He thinks of Kuroo’s wild hair and honey eyes and sly smile; cat eyes and hyena laugh and skin full of constellations; and can’t seem to put any of it into comprehensible words. After all, Kei thinks, Kuroo might be the one thing in life Kei doesn’t understand. May never understand. “Kuroo is— well. Kuroo is Kuroo.” 

And Kei thinks. He thinks.

  
  


❊

  
  


Kei is sitting in Kuroo’s backyard, leaning against the trunk of a persimmon tree and watching the fire crackle underneath the sound of Kuroo’s voice when he comes to a devastating realization.

Going into the city with Kuroo and Bokuto goes as well as one might expect—which is to say, it desn’t go well at all. In fact, it goes very poorly. They get kicked out of three stores for being too loud, two arcades for being “disruptive,” and a ramen shop because the two idiots won’t stop shoving chopsticks up their noses. Through it all, the only thing keeping Kei from having an aneurysm is Akaashi, the saint, and his heaven-sent calming presence—and Kei thinks that he will never understand how Akaashi has managed to survive as Kuroo and Bokuto’s friend for so long. 

Still, Kei laughs more than he’s laughed in probably his entire life, and watching the three of them interact with such familiarity makes his chest ache in a way he didn’t think it  _ could  _ ache. And as if that weren’t enough, Akaashi and Bokuto and Kuroo alike turn to him and treat him with the same teasing kind of tenderness he’s long forgotten existed at all, and Tsukishima Kei has never been  _ soft  _ in even the most liberal sense of the word but he’s starting to think that he  _ could’ve  _ been, in a different life. 

And now, watching Kuroo’s fingers slide across the strings of an acoustic guitar, his voice saccharine sweet and heavenly, Kei understands. Looks at Akaashi out of the corner of his eye, watches how he smiles at Bokuto like there is no one he’d rather be smiling at, and understands. Finds himself thinking that there is no place he’d rather be than right here, right now, laughing at the way Kuroo glares at Bokuto with a marshmallow sitting precariously in his mess of hair through the shimmering air, and understands.

  
  


❊

  
  


**Kuroo-san [12:23 am]**

Cats or dogs?

**tsukki <3 [12:25 am]**

cats. go to sleep, kuroo-san. 

  
  


❊

  
  


Except Kei doesn’t understand—not really, not  _ completely _ —not until the sound of Kuroo snoring gently across the table startles him from painstakingly transcribing English vocabulary onto a fresh deck of flashcards. 

They’re sitting at Kuroo’s dining room table, studying for their upcoming English test—or at least, they were studying, until Kuroo fell asleep. In hindsight, maybe Kei should’ve been more concerned when Kuroo fell silent mid-sentence a few minutes earlier—but as it was, Kei didn’t pay it much mind. He was too busy monopolizing on the silence that came from the rare event of Kuroo Tetsurou shutting the fuck up. 

Kei looks up from his flashcards and at Kuroo’s form sprawled over a mosaic of worksheets. The briefest twinge of annoyance crosses his mind before Kuroo’s peaceful expression chases it firmly away, and Kei relaxes, and thinks Kuroo  _ has  _ been more tired than usual lately. He looks particularly dumb like this, Kei thinks, blinking blearily at Kuroo’s face. His mouth hangs slightly ajar, a glittering line of drool dripping from the corner onto the worksheets underneath his cheek. The hair that usually obscures his left eye falls rebelliously over the bridge of his nose, the ends tickling the smooth lid of his right eye. Both eyes are closed, lashes fluttering gently to the rhythm of whatever Kuroo must be dreaming about, and Kei thinks he looks almost innocent this way—or at least, as innocent as Kuroo can possibly look—guileless and unsuspecting.

And this is how Kei realizes he  _ like _ likes Kuroo fucking Tetsurou: at the sight of Kuroo, drooling and defenseless, asleep at the dining room table as the sun melts over the persimmon tree in the backyard like some sort of aesthetic cinematic shot. Kei’s heart clenches, and a withering sigh, he sets down his pencil and glances over at the clock. He gathers his things as quietly as possible, careful not to disturb Kuroo’s slumber, and drapes his jacket over Kuroo’s shoulders before leaving in a mild panic of squishy feelings and thoughts too embarrassing to name.

  
  


❊

  
  


**Kuroo-san [7:12 pm]**

Ahhh sry for falling asleep ＞﹏＜

I cant believe u didn’t wake me up (っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ

Text me when u get home safely~~

**tsukki <3 [8:04 pm]**

what are you, my mom?

don’t worry about it, you looked like you needed it.

**Kuroo-san [8:19 pm]**

I cant tell whether to be happy tsukki cares about me or offended bc ur saying I looked like shit :(

**tsukki <3 [8:22 pm]**

whatever makes you feel better, kuroo-san.

  
  


❊

  
  


Kei knows a lot of things, and he  _ knows _ he knows a lot of things—prides himself even, on being devastatingly aware of himself and the world around him. He’s spent a lifetime taking note of the way others react to their surroundings, analyzing every change in appearance, expression, behavior. And so, Kei knows that feelings make people do dumb things, bad things, glorious things. Knows all of this, yet watches himself make the same mistakes as everyone else. The same mistakes he always makes. Watches, and watches.

(Watches himself run away from Kuroo’s sharp gaze, and tells himself it’s for the best.)

But Kuroo knows a lot of things too, and Kei knows he knows a lot of things—doesn’t miss the way Kuroo’s eyes narrow when Kei makes up excuse after excuse to explain why he can’t study with Kuroo, doesn’t miss the way Kuroo’s smile falls when Kei turns down his invitations to hang out with Bokuto and Akaashi again. Doesn’t miss the way Kuroo’s eyes still look for him after practice. Doesn’t miss any of it, yet still misses it entirely. 

But Kuroo Tetsurou knows a lot of things, and Kei knows this; so when Kuroo corners him in the hallway before class one day, Kei can’t say he’s particularly surprised. 

“Are you avoiding me?” Kuroo asks, and Kei sighs. 

“Maybe.” Kei watches Kuroo frown, and wishes he didn’t. 

Kuroo’s eyes flash, defiant. “Why?” 

“Why do you care?” Kei snaps, because he cares too much. 

Kuroo doesn’t miss a beat. “Because I care about you. And as much as you want me to think you don’t care about anything, I know you care too. So can you stop avoiding me so we can be friends again?” he says, smiling weakly. 

Kei inhales sharply. He feels so small under Kuroo’s gaze, he can’t bear looking into Kuroo’s eyes—wild honey and knowing. Instead, he looks past Kuroo and out the window, where the clouds part for the blazing sun to weave a shining halo at the edges of Kei’s vision, angelic and so, so warm. And Kei’s mind is spinning, Kuroo’s words bouncing through his mind like a scratch on a CD, damning— _ I care about you care about you care about you care— _

Gets lost in it all, and says, “Okay.” Forgets for a second the terrifying reality of not knowing, and says okay. 

Kuroo’s eyes widen; he takes a step back. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Kei says a little too breathlessly, a little too happily. Smiles, because he can’t help it. Smiles, and watches Kuroo smile too—for real this time. “Yeah,” he says again, just to make sure. “ _ Yeah. _ ” 

  
  


❊

  
  


Kei is listening to Kuroo drone on about some complex organic chemistry concept or another, absently twirling his pencil over his fingers and thinking about how he has a math test later that week and a modern literature essay due next week and then finals in little more than a month when Kuroo stops abruptly. Kei looks up at the sudden silence to catch Kuroo’s stare, warm and gentle and tender. Kei feels his heart stutter and quickly looks past Kuroo, embarrassed, his face growing warm in the sun’s glare. Looks at the persimmon tree in the backyard, the clothes fluttering gently in the breeze. Looks, and almost doesn’t hear Kuroo open his mouth.

“Can I kiss you?” 

It takes a moment for the words to register—even when they do, they don’t, not really. Maybe that’s why after a second passes, then another, then another, Kei just laughs—light and bubbly and so unlike him, and nods. 

Leans halfway in, then pauses. “This,” Kei starts, “is a bad idea,” he says, but he’s smiling. Smiling, because how can he not when Kuroo is looking at him like he is spring itself—like he is the first breath of life emerging from a desolate winter, radiant. 

Kuroo bites his lip, mouth pulling into a grin. “Maybe, but I love a good bad idea.” Kuroo grins, and closes the distance.

And Kei knows a lot of things; knows enough to know that he knows nothing at all. Kisses Kuroo Tetsurou and knows that he knows nothing of kissing, of love, of Kuroo Tetsurou. And he has never wanted to know, yet wants to know more than anything— and maybe this time, Kei thinks, he’ll finally get to know.

  
  
  
  
**ii. summer**

_ (is love a wound that deepens as it dreams?) _

  
  


Their study sessions are absolutely destroyed by whatever  _ this _ is, Kei thinks, looking at the mess of papers on the table beside them as Kuroo plants open-mouthed kisses down his neck, brushing ever so lightly over every place that sends shudders down Kei’s spine. Outside, the youth of spring is settling slowly into the well-worn hands of summer; outside, life stutters momentarily to a hot, green halt. School is almost over—will be in under three weeks—and their project is almost done. There is just one more scene they have to film before it will finally be finished. The scene that Kei came over to work on but immediately forgot about, distracted by Kuroo’s pretty face. 

Kei finds he doesn’t mind, not really—not when Kuroo looks up at him and presses his lips gently against Kei’s, eyelashes fluttering closed, fanning gracefully over his cheeks. Kei finds he doesn’t mind whatever this is, doesn’t mind Kuroo and his hideous laugh, dumbstruck smile. 

No, Kei doesn’t mind—but they’ve done a  _ lot  _ of kissing and not a whole lot of talking (mostly because Kei has discovered that kissing Kuroo is a  _ very _ effective way to get him to stop talking) and the doubt that lingers in Kei’s stomach curls at the thought of not knowing exactly what this is, not knowing exactly what this means. 

“What are we doing,” Kei blurts when they part for air, and Kuroo quirks an eyebrow in response. 

“We are kissing,” Kuroo says simply, and Kei rolls his eyes.

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” Kei deadpans. “I meant like, what is this. What are we,” he says, gesturing wildly at the space between them. 

Kuroo presses circles absently into Kei’s jaw with his thumb. “What do you want us to be?” he asks, as gentle as ever. Kuroo shrinks imperceptibly, and Kei thinks that maybe he is as scared as he is.

And Kei falters, at this—falters, because he has never let himself  _ want  _ like he wants now, not since it became apparent that wanting meant hoping, too. After all, there is an inherent sort of vulnerability in hoping, Kei thinks, and he’s never trusted himself or anyone else enough to think that wanting wasn’t synonymous with losing. Even now, with Kuroo’s face mere centimeters away, lip between his teeth and waiting—wanting and losing look dangerously adjacent. 

Kuroo’s eyes flick upward to meet Kei’s gaze, all wild honey and flickering neon danger, and Kei thinks he wants Kuroo anyway. 

“I want to be your boyfriend,” Kei decides, his face flushing bright red. 

Kuroo’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open for a split second before turning into a bright smile. “Coincidence, I want to be your boyfriend too,” Kuroo says, and Kei breathes. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Kei says, covering his face with his hands. 

Kuroo reaches up to grab Kei’s wrists, pulling them away slowly. Kisses them, and smiles. “Your idiot,” he says, and Kei surges forward to kiss him, deep and long and sweet as wild honey.

  
  


❊

  
  


“Congratulations,” Akaashi says, setting his books down on the desk next to Kei’s. Class hasn’t started yet and Kei has his earbuds in, playing the song that Kuroo had shown him on the bus all those months ago. A little more than two months ago, to be exact, and Kei almost can’t believe it’s May already. It seemed like just yesterday that Kei was walking to the bus stop for the first time; spilling his books across the scuffed linoleum floor and looking up to see Kuroo sneak his way into Kei’s life. 

“What?” Kei blurts, pulling out his earphones. 

“Congratulations,” Akaashi repeats, “I heard you and Kuroo finally got together.” 

Kei blushes. Of course Akaashi would know—Kuroo probably told Bokuto, who must’ve told Akaashi. Even if Bokuto hadn’t told him, Akaashi probably would’ve figured it out eventually anyway—nothing escapes those sharp eyes. 

“Thanks? I think?” Kei responds, unsure of what to say. 

“Kuroo seems really happy,” he says distantly, and Kei’s heart warms at the mention. “I’m happy for you.”

Kei looks away to hide his burning face. “Yeah, I’m happy too,” he says, and finds that he means it.

  
  


❊

  
  


They finish their project three days before it’s due, and Kei actually kind of likes it. They’re sitting on the floor in Kuroo’s room, and Kei can’t stop reading the poem they wrote to himself, mouthing the words over and over under his breath.  _ Persimmons _ . Kei glances out Kuroo’s window and towards the persimmon tree standing in the yard, leaves swaying gently to the beat of the music playing from Kei’s phone.

Kuroo has his glasses on, his body curled over a practice test, pencil in hand and scribbling furiously at the booklet. Kei has never seen Kuroo with glasses before—didn’t even know Kuroo wore glasses until now—but finds it strangely charming: the way they slide down the bridge of his nose when he’s too focused on studying to notice, too engrossed in some practice college entrance exam or another to spare a moment to push them back up. And Kei thinks he rather likes this—likes discovering new pieces of information here and there and still not getting any closer to understanding Kuroo Tetsurou as an entity, wholly ineffable. Likes thinking that there are sides of Kuroo that only he is privy to, that no one else has seen before. Likes knowing that there are still sides of Kuroo he’s never seen, and may never see at all. 

Kei watches Kuroo circle the answer to a problem, and thinks that he could spend an eternity just watching him, lost in the mystery of Kuroo Tetsurou. Thinks this, and reminds himself that he’s allowed to think things like this now when he catches himself in a panic. Kei teaches himself to relent—to let his adoration wash over him like the rush of the tide against the shore. 

Kuroo circles one last answer just as his timer goes off, startling Kei from his reverie. Kuroo stretches his arms over his head and yawns, a sound as hideous as his laugh escaping his mouth. Kei lifts a hand over his mouth to cover his smile, and Kuroo opens his eyes to look at him, yawn transforming into a sleepy expression. 

“Why are you covering your mouth?” Kuroo asks, crawling over to Kei. “Are you smiling? Oh my god, you’re smiling,” Kuroo says, wrapping Kei into an awkward hug, limbs sprawled haphazardly over Kei’s own. 

Kei drops his hand to swat at Kuroo instinctively. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why do you cover your smile? I love your smile,” Kuroo pouts, pushing through Kei’s thrashing limbs to plant a kiss on his forehead. “You should smile more. And laugh more. Have I told you how much I love your laugh? Even if the only reason you’re laughing is because you’re laughing at me. I would gladly donate my dignity to the cause.” 

“As if you have any dignity left to donate,” Kei quips, and Kuroo laughs. 

“I love it when you’re mean,” Kuroo says, punctuating his words with a chaste kiss against Kei’s lips. 

“That’s kinky.” 

Kuroo laughs. “See? Mean.”

“I’m not wrong,” Kei says, defensive.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Kuroo says, wiggling his eyebrows rambunctiously. 

Kei rolls his eyes as he cards his fingers through Kuroo’s hair, and distantly, he wonders if he’ll ever get to find out  _ how _ Kuroo’s hair manages to do what it does. Kuroo hums at the touch, squirming to get closer to Kei. “I’m going to Tokyo next weekend to take a college entrance exam. Do you want to come with me?”

Kei’s freezes at the mention of Tokyo, his hand stuttering to a stop between the tufts of Kuroo’s hair. Freezes, and looks down at Kuroo, eyes closed and face relaxed in peaceful bliss. Takes one look at Kuroo and melts into Kuroo’s arms, the implications of Tokyo fading away into the back of his mind. “Are you asking me out on a date?” Kei asks with a teasing smile, his hand sliding down to cup Kuroo’s face.

Kuroo opens his eyes, glazed wild honey, and matches Kei’s gaze. “Tsukki, do you want to go to Tokyo on a date with me?” he says, so sincere that Kei couldn’t say no even if he wanted to.

“Yes, you idiot,  _ yes, _ ” Kei says, and kisses him.

They sit in silence for a little while longer, with Kei running his hand through Kuroo’s hair and Kuroo’s face pressed against Kei’s chest, purring like an oversized cat.  _ Persimmons. Persimmons. Persimmons.  _ The words form around Kei’s lips, soundless and wanting, and Kei wonders how long it takes for someone to fall in love.

❊

  
  


They day they’re supposed to present their project, Kei wakes up coughing with the worst headache he’s had since he had to watch Hinata try to stuff three pork buns in his mouth at once. 

He’s actually relieved—he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to bear letting everyone see their video. Somewhere along the way, their project had stopped being just a project and become something more—something like the way he laughed when Kuroo fell out of the persimmon tree, or; the way Kuroo blushed when he’d extended a hand to help Kuroo up, or; the way they kissed, slow and deep and breathless under the shade. 

Kei ended up cutting all of that footage out of the video, of course, but he knows what happened—and somehow, that’s enough.

  
  


❊

  
  


**dumb cat [11:04 a.m.]**

_ Where r uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu _

_ I cant bleaf ur leaving me 2 present all by myself :/ _

**dumb cat [11:06 a.m.]**

_ Okay but actually r u ok  _

_ Its unlike u to miss school _

Kei smiles, his laugh quickly turning into a cough as he types out a response. He can imagine Kuroo’s pout clearly in his mind; lips curled cutely, eyes wide and glassy. The image makes his heart ache. 

**moonshine <3 [11:24 a.m.]**

_ i’m fine. just sick. good luck presenting. _

_ and for your orgo final. _

**dumb cat [11:31 a.m.]**

_ Noooo bby  _

_ Im coming over after school u cant stop me _

**moonshine <3 [11:35 a.m.] **

_ good luck with that too, you don’t have my address dumbass.  _

_ stop texting me and go to class. _

Kei locks his phone, knowing that Kuroo would gladly keep texting him otherwise. Not that Kuroo isn’t a good student—he just lacks self restraint when it comes to certain things, Kei’s learned, and Kei is most definitely one of them. Luckily, he has enough self restraint for the both of them, Kei thinks, before slipping back under the covers. 

**dumb cat [2:49 p.m.]**

_ u underestimate me _

  
  


❊

  
  


Kei wakes up to the sound of Kuroo’s obnoxious knocking. 

He blearily checks the clock; it’s 4:32 p.m., which means that Kuroo must have come straight from school. He throws on a shirt without thinking and makes his way downstairs, traipsing through the house in a haze. He can see Kuroo waiting outside his door through the window, and wonders how the hell Kuroo found out where he lives.

“What are you doing here,” Kei says as he pulls open the door, watching Kuroo 

“It’s good to see you too. And isn’t it obvious? I’m taking care of my sick boyfriend. I brought soup,” Kuroo says, raising the plastic bag in his hand. 

Kei just splutters, moving to let Kuroo in. “I— I don’t need you to take care of me.” 

Kuroo laughs. “Trust me, I know. But I want to. Wanted to make sure you weren’t like, dying or anything. Also, is that a dinosaur on your shirt? And your socks?”

Kei looks down, and to his horror he is indeed wearing his dinosaur shirt. And socks. “No,” he lies, shuffling into the kitchen. 

“You’re adorable,” Kuroo says, setting the bag on the counter. “Bowls?”

Kei points at a cabinet. “I’m not adorable,” he mutters. Kuroo pours two bowls of soup, and slides one toward Kei. “Spoons are in the drawer next to you,” Kei offers, and Kuroo takes out two spoons. Hands one to Kei, and keeps the other.

“How are you feeling?” Kuroo asks, absently stirring the contents of his bowl. 

Kei sips gently at the soup. It’s a little too salty, but otherwise respectable. “Like I’ve been run over by a bus.” He takes another sip, the liquid burning warm and When Kei looks up, there’s a mischievous smirk on Kuroo’s face, and he feels his stomach drop. “What.” 

“Wanna cuddle?” Kuroo asks, wiggling his eyebrows ridiculously.

Kei sets his bowl down. “Absolutely not. I’m sick.”

“It would make you feel better,” he sing-songs, stalking towards Kei like a predator hunting prey, and Kei feels his eye twitch. 

“You’re going to get sick,” Kei protests, but it’s swallowed by Kuroo’s arms around him, wrapping him into a lazy hug. 

“I won’t,” he insists, the words tickling the tip of Kei’s ear. “I ate a lot of hoshigaki today in preparation.”

Kei snorts. “I hope your teeth rot,” he says, but relaxes into Kuroo’s touch anyway. 

  
  
  


❊

  
  


Kei spends the four hour train ride to Tokyo listening to music and looking out the window, watching the miles go by one by one until they blur into a looming mass of five hundred odd miles in his mind. He’s got a single earbud in his left ear and the other tucked snugly in Kuroo’s right ear, pressed gently into the dip of his shoulder. Looks down at their hands, fingers loosely intertwined, and thinks that he couldn’t afford to make this trip more than maybe three times a year—and neither could Kuroo. Thinks about Akiteru, who has been home only twice in the two years since he first left. Thinks about Yamaguchi, whom he’s barely talked to in the past couple of months, both of them too busy with finals to say more than a fleeting  _ how are you _ every other week.

He squeezes Kuroo’s hand tight against his own, and looks back out the window. 

  
  


❊

  
  


Kei has only been in Tokyo once before; then, he was still so young and angry and scared of the world, and Akiteru was leaving for college—leaving him. It’s only been two years since he begrudgingly helped Akiteru unpack boxes of memories into his tiny apartment, but it feels like a lifetime ago. He’s not angry anymore—not really. Days turned into months turned into years and his anger burned itself to ashes, hardened into indifference by the rivers of his grieving. But he is still young, and scared, and suddenly, it feels like nothing has changed at all.

Akiteru is at the station when they arrive, smiling wide and waving his arm frantically over the crowd. Kei lets go of Kuroo’s hand as they approach, growing increasingly self conscious. Somehow, even after everything that’s happened, Kei still wants Akiteru’s approval, as if to say  _ I am not like you,  _ which is to say he is exactly like Akiteru. Except Akiteru has moved on, and Kei is still here, running in place. 

“Kei!” Akiteru shouts, pulling him into a hug. Kei stiffens instinctively. “I’ve missed you so much,” he adds, squeezing Kei tight before finally letting go.

“Nii-san,” he says with a nod, monotone. “It’s good to see you. This is my friend, Kuroo.” 

Kuroo steps forward from behind Kei, looking more flustered than Kei has ever seen him before. His eyes dart nervously around Akiteru, his smile sheepish. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Kuroo says, holding out a hand. 

Akiteru takes it politely. “Nice to meet you too. It’s good to know my little nerd brother is making friends,” he says, glancing pointedly back at Kei. 

“Stop embarrassing me,” Kei snaps, cheeks warm. “Can we go now?” 

The train has long since gone, and the rushing hoard of commuters has made its way off the platform and into the heart of the station, no longer to be seen. 

“Of course,” Akiteru says, and turns to leave. Kei starts walking, glancing briefly over his shoulder to make sure Kuroo is still there, and follows.

  
  


❊

  
  


“I didn’t know you played volleyball,” Kuroo says, peering curiously at a picture hanging from Akiteru’s wall. Kei freezes, a text to Yamaguchi left half-written on the phone in his hand. He turns his gaze slowly, carefully, to where Kuroo stands, then walks over, text forgotten, to take a peek at the photo from over his shoulder. 

There is a collection of photos on the wall—of their family and of Akiteru’s friends and teammates. Kei remembers pulling them out of the cardboard box, wooden frames clacking against each other as they slid over delicate fingers, marred by tape. Remembers looking at pictures of Akiteru’s volleyball team and thinking Akiteru was a fool for keeping them, for wanting them. Kei remembers haphazardly throwing the frames across Akiteru’s floor and running to hide in the bathroom until it was time to go home. Remembers all of them except for the one Kuroo is looking at now.

Akiteru must have put it up some time after he first moved in. It’s a picture of them together—they are standing in the park behind their old house, a volleyball sandwiched between in Kei’s grasp and Akiteru’s hands on Kei’s shoulders. Akiteru is smiling that bright smile of his, all pearly whites and gap-toothed, innocent and victorious. Kei is smiling too, a rare sight, though not as rare as it is now—soft and shy, but so in awe. A moment stolen from a time when they both thought that volleyball was all that mattered in life—a time when Kei didn’t know what it felt like to lose. 

“I didn’t,” Kei says finally, “not really.”

Kuroo tears his gaze away from the picture to look at Kei, brows furrowed in an unspoken question. “What do you mean?”

Kei lets his thoughts linger for a second longer, then starts, turning to leave. “I never played when it counted.” 

  
  


❊

  
  


“Where are we going?” Kei asks, following Kuroo through the crowded streets. 

Kuroo tugs Kei along, weaving through the crowd effortlessly. “Just trust me. You’ll love it, I promise.” He punctuates the statement by giving Kei’s hand a reassuring squeeze. 

Still, Kei regards him incredulously. “But I  _ don’t  _ trust you.” 

“What have I ever done to deserve this treatment from my adorable boyfriend?” Kuroo asks, pouting.

“Just yesterday you put  _ salt  _ in my coffee and told me it was  _ sugar, _ ” Kei hisses, still bitter about the whole ordeal. 

Kuroo opens his mouth, then closes it again. Kei glares pointedly. “You didn’t even blink when you downed the whole mug _ , _ ” Kuroo defends, and there’s a hint of childish impudence in the tone of his voice that makes Kei elbow him in the side. Kuroo yelps, looking utterly betrayed, but concedes. “Okay, I deserved that. But you can trust me for this, I swear!” 

Kei levels him with one last Look, a silent threat that they both know Kei will never follow through on, but Kuroo raises his arms in surrender and only smirks a little bit when Kei huffs and lowers his metaphorical guns. 

They navigate through unfamiliar streets, Kei loosely holding Kuroo’s hand to prevent them from getting separated. The summer night heat in Tokyo is almost worse than it is in the country, compounded by masses of bodies and the sheer closeness of everything. It feels strange being in a city again, and the fact that it’s already been three months since Kei moved to Miyagi dawns on him like a wet cloth with the intent to strangle. 

He can still remember the day his parents told him they were leaving Yokohama—the first breath of winter had cast the city in a film of frost, and the words that came out of his parents’ mouths bloomed into halos like white peonies in the cold air. Kei did not say anything back. Instead, he nodded with a resigned sort of acceptance, and thought it was the end in the way someone fifteen going on sixteen can think it’s the end—in the way everyone fifteen going on sixteen thinks it’s the end. 

And now, three months later, Kei is still fifteen going on sixteen and he’s walking through Tokyo with a boy that makes him feel things he didn’t know he could feel and he doesn’t want it to end. He doesn’t want it to end, but he’s fifteen going on sixteen and Tokyo is beautiful at night. He’s fifteen going on sixteen and Kuroo will ace the entrance exam. 

Kuroo slows to a stop. They’re standing in front of a cafe of sorts, advertised by a black cat painted onto a wooden sign. Kei can see the lights from inside illuminating the area around it—can hear the chatter and clangor of the kitchen. 

“Here we are,” Kuroo says, opening the door for Kei. A bell jingles over his head and a burst of air conditioned air hits Kei as his mouth drops, eyes widening at the cats strewn lazily around the cafe. 

“A cat cafe,” Kei says, walking in a little too slowly, dumbstruck. 

“Do you like it?” Kuroo asks, voice lowering to a whisper. 

A black kitten sidles up to him, scratching her face against the hem of his jeans with abandon. She is 

“I’m allergic to cats,” he blurts, and the terror that flashes across Kuroo’s face almost makes up for the salt he poured in Kei’s coffee.  _ Almost.  _ “I’m allergic to cats, and this is absolutely perfect.” 

  
  


❊

  
  


They are both silent on the walk home, content to simply exist in each others presence as they navigate the winding streets back to Akiteru’s apartment. The city is still buzzing with life—people rushing out of restaurants, into bars, through the streets. The lights fizz and crackle as they pass, power lines humming hymns in the night, and Kei sneezes. 

Kuroo silently hands him his handkerchief with an apologetic smile, and Kei would say thank you but he sneezes again. 

“We didn’t have to stay there,” Kuroo offers, and Kei rolls his eyes.

“Shut up. It was perfect. I don’t care that I’m allergic to cats.” 

“Should we stop to get some allergy medicine?” 

“I’ll be fine,” Kei insists, and Kuroo seems to accept this because he finally drops the matter entirely. 

Tokyo at night is peaceful in a way that Kei didn’t expect that it would be. It’s a steady sort of chaos—the kind that ebbs and flows like the tide against the moon, and suddenly it is easier than it should be for Kei to imagine Kuroo living here. The thought instills something like loss in the space between his ribs, but he cannot fault Tokyo any more than he can fault Miyagi. Cannot fault Kuroo any more than he can fault his mother. 

“Do you like it here?” Kei asks abruptly, looking at Kuroo’s profile. He looks beautiful painted in the technicolor glare of the city, saturated in neon hopes and neon dreams. This is where Kuroo belongs, Kei thinks, with its fast trains and bright lights, and wonders if this is where he belongs too.

“Yes,” Kuroo says immediately, breathless and in awe. “Don’t you?”

Kei humms, thinking. It’s a lot—Tokyo is noisy, crowded, and full of shady people on shady corners dealing shady things. It’s a lot, but so is Kuroo, and Kei has lived in the city before. Can learn to live in the city again. “I like being here with you,” Kei decides, and knows that it won’t be enough—will be everything to Kuroo, maybe, but Kuroo is an optimist. Kei is not. 

Kuroo blushes, sputtering. “You can’t just say things like that!” 

Kei smiles, shrugging. “You say things like that all the time. I don’t know what’s the big deal, Mr.  _ I’m Very Smooth _ ,” he quips, teasing.

“So you admit I’m smooth?” Kuroo asks, grin growing devious.

Kei deadpans. “Out of everything,  _ that’s _ what you choose to focus on?”

Kuro shrugs. “I’m an optimist,” he says, and Kei smiles—a little happy, a little sad. Because Kuroo  _ is  _ an optimist, and Kei is not. Kei is a realist leaning towards doomsday pragmatist—all naive nihilism and giving up before he’s even tried, packaged neatly in isolation and overkill defense mechanisms.

“You should come play volleyball with Bokuto, Akaashi, and I sometime this summer,” Kuroo says, nudging Kei gently in the side, like a whirlwind of hopes and dreams that Kei once had.

Kei breathes in, long and deep and full of grief for a future yet to come. Relents. “Okay,” he says, and nudges Kuroo back. 

  
  


❊

  
  


When they get back to Akiteru’s apartment, Kuroo has him wait in the kitchen before disappearing into the living room turned makeshift guest room. 

Kei doesn’t know what Kuroo’s planning, which means he automatically doesn’t like it. Still, he complies, lingering awkwardly by the doorway as he listens to Kuroo rustle through his bags. 

“Happy one month anniversary, moonshine,” Kuroo says, and Kei isn’t sure what he was expecting but it certainly isn’t this.

Kuroo is holding two thin rectangular pieces of paper, presenting them to Kei with a delicate sort of care. Kei takes them gingerly, turning over the flimsy cardstock in his hands. They look like tickets of some sort, and his breath catches when he finally sees the words printed on them. 

“You didn’t,” Kei breathes, because there’s  _ no way.  _ There’s no way Kuroo got two tickets to a concert for Kei’s favorite band, for a showing in Sendai in September that as far as Kei was aware, had been sold out since March. Words aborted halfway spill out of Kei’s mouth in a flurry of incomprehensible syllables, and if Kei didn’t know better he’d think he was having a stroke. “How?” he finally manages, and Kuroo, the bastard, just shrugs like it’s nothing. 

And Kei should’ve seen this coming—should’ve known Kuroo would do something so kind, so  _ thoughtful _ , but Kei is not kind nor thoughtful and he doesn’t deserve kindness, doesn’t deserve to be thought of. “You shouldn’t have,” he says, words laced with guilt. “I didn’t get you anything.” 

“I wanted to,” Kuroo insists, pressing Kei’s hand into his own. Kei squeezes, and Kuroo looks away, flushed. “Besides, you being here with me is already enough.” 

And he will never get used to kissing Kuroo Tetsurou, Kei thinks, seated comfortably in Kuroo’s lap, his hands running absently through Kuroo’s hair. It’s been a month since their first kiss, when Kuroo couldn’t stop smiling to kiss Kei properly, and Kei found that he didn’t mind. Would never mind. It’s been a month, and time feels surreal in Kei’s mind, tangled in honey. Kei looks back on his fifteen going on sixteen years of life and feels that time is infinite, in the way only someone fifteen going on sixteen can feel it’s infinite. Looks into the future and sees only the hazy outline of right here right now, and thinks this moment will never end. Hopes it will never end.

“Thank you,” he whispers in between kisses, and Kuroo beams. 

(But Kei knows better—knows that life goes on, like a train speeding to Tokyo, always leaving him behind—so he rests his head against Kuroo’s shoulder, nuzzles into the dip of his collarbone, and lets himself pretend it will never end. One more time.)

  
  


❊

  
  


Kei wakes to the smell of burnt bacon and eggs. He rubs his eyes blearily, blinded by the light streaming in from the window. The city outside glitters in the heat, metal reflecting blurry shards of white hot light into fractals that dance across the wall, moving with the gentle flow of the clouds above. Kei feels for his glasses on the floor next to him, putting them on as quickly as possible.

He glances haphazardly to the right, knowing that Kuroo will have left much earlier for his exam, but still hoping somehow for the boy’s presence. Kei tries not to be disappointed at the empty space where Kuroo’s futon once was, instead busying himself by putting his own sheets away before padding into the kitchen to watch Akiteru struggle to make breakfast.

“Morning,” Kei says, more out of habit than anything else. He opens the fridge to pour himself a glass of milk.

Akiteru glances over his shoulder with a bright smile. “Oh, good morning! Your friend left already for his exam.”

“I saw,” Kei replies, gulping down the milk. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t show you guys around the city yesterday. A co-worker asked me to cover his shift, and I owed him,” Akiteru says, surprisingly calm considering the abysmal state of the eggs on the pan. 

“Do you usually make breakfast?” Kei asks, not bothering to hide his concern. 

“No it’s okay, I got this,” Akiteru insists, transferring the eggs into a plate. 

Kei quirks an eyebrow at the charred eggs. “No, you don’t.” 

Akiteru sighs. “No, I don’t. We can go downstairs and find a breakfast stand?” 

“Sure,” Kei agrees. “Let me go change first.”

They walk down the street side by side in an uncomfortable silence. It’s early enough on a Sunday morning that there aren’t too many people out yet, making it much easier to navigate the streets. 

When Kei can no longer stand the silence, he gathers his resolve and asks, “When did you put up that photo of us? With the volleyball?” 

Akiteru slows for a moment, trailing behind Kei sheepishly. “You noticed?” 

Kei hesitates. “No. Kuroo did,” he admits, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“I found it the day after you guys went home,” he confesses, returning to his normal pace. “It was stuck in the box with my volleyball things.”

Kei nods. “Why’d you keep it?”

“I couldn’t just throw it away,” he says, like it means something.

Kei furrows his brow. “You could’ve.” 

Kei doesn’t notice that Akiter has stopped walking until he is a few paces away. He turns around to look at Akiteru, his smile broken and full of empty promises. “No, I couldn’t,” he says, so quiet Kei almost can’t hear him. “Listen, Kei, I’m sorry for lying to you. For letting you down. But I won’t apologize for leaving. I had to.”

Kei swallows, thick and heavy and hurting, like glass in the back of his throat. “I never asked you to,” Kei says, because it’s true. Kei didn’t ask much of Akiteru after that.

“No, I guess you didn’t,” Akiteru says, a hollow laugh escaping from his lips, shaking imperceptibly. “Sometimes, I wish you would. Maybe then you could move on,” he says, and begins walking again. Walks towards Kei, and then past him.

“I did,” Kei says, confused. “I’ve moved on.”

Akiteru doesn’t look back when he says, “No, you didn’t. Stepped to the side, maybe, but you didn’t move forward.” 

Kei wonders distantly what exactly Akiteru means, but he doesn’t elaborate and Kei doesn’t have the will to ask. Just starts walking, falling in step next to Akiteru, and goes forth without going anywhere at all..

  
  


❊

  
  


**dumb cat [12:03 pm]**

_ Im done! Taking the train back to the apartment now _

**moonshine <3 [12:08 pm]**

_ how did the exam go? _

**dumb cat [12:10 pm]**

_ Really well! I have a rlly good feeling abt this ^^ _

**moonshine <3 [12:11 pm]**

_ that’s good. i knew you’d do well.  _

  
  


❊

  
  


Kuroo graduates on a sunny day at the beginning of June. Kei watches him walk across the stage in his cap and gown, the silky cloth flowing like ribbons in the wind. Watches him take his diploma, bow, and move his tassel to the other side, and Kei can feel time slipping between his fingers like sand in an ever shrinking hourglass. 

Kei is counting the hours they have left in his mind when Kuroo finds him, pulling him into a tight hug. Bokuto is hot on Kuroo’s heels with Akaashi trailing less excitedly behind, and suddenly they’re all hugging, Bokuto and Kuroo’s tears staining his shirt, but Kei doesn’t mind. He leans his head against Kuroo’s shirt, feels Kuroo’s hand in his hair, and forgets to finish counting.

  
  


❊

  
  


Kei has a really bad feeling about this—he’s following Kuroo to Bokuto’s house, kneepads in hand and his glasses swapped for contacts, and the knot in his stomach is rising steadily up his chest and into his throat. But he promised Kuroo, so he keeps walking, listening intently to Kuroo recount how Bokuto hit a volleyball into the principal’s face in their first year. Kei snickers at the image, and wonders where he’s heard something similar before.

They get to Bokuto’s house right as Kuroo is finishing another story about their shenanigans. Kei isn’t really listening anymore—he’d feel bad about it if it weren’t for the anxiety lingering at the sides of his mind, making his hands shake and his head dizzy. Volleyball has been a hole in his life since the day he saw Akiteru standing there on the stands, wide eyed and terrified of what he’d done. After that, every practice, every game was just that—a practice, a game. Something to pass the time, pass the anger. And because Kei couldn’t find it in himself to hate Akiteru, he quit volleyball instead. 

Bokuto and Akaashi are already in the backyard setting up the net when Kuroo hops over the steel wired fence. Kei looks at the locked fence and then at Kuroo in distaste before following suit, his long limbs bending awkwardly as he clambers over the fence.

“Bro, we’re here!” Kuroo calls, and Bokuto’s face whips around faster than Kei’s eyes can follow. One moment, he’s standing in the yard, net in hand; in the next, he’s somehow teleported into Kuroo’s arms, lips formed halfway around the world’s most obnoxious scream. 

“BRO!” Bokuto exclaims, and if it weren’t for the fact that Kei’s eardrums are withering into oblivion, he would be impressed by how Kuroo manages to not drop Bokuto. “You’re here! And so is Tsukki!” 

“That’s what Kuroo-san _ just  _ said, Bo,” Akaashi comments from where Bokuto dropped the net, letting it unfurl onto the ground in a tangle of once-white nylon stained brown and green. 

“Bokuto-san,” Kei greets, only wincing slightly. Bokuto turns toward him, and Kei sees the hug coming, implicit in the push and pull of Bokuto’s massive pecs, and panics. “I think Akaashi-san needs your help,” he blurts, just in time, because Bokuto freezes mid-hug approach to apologize profusely to Akaashi for dropping the net. 

Relieved, Kei sighs shakily, wringing his hands together in an attempt to disperse the nervous energy that crackles over his skin like a prison. 

“Hey, you okay?” Kuroo asks abruptly, peering curiously at Kei. 

Kei looks away. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he lies, gazing into the distance, wondering how many people out there must be playing volleyball at this exact moment—for the first time, for the last time, and all the times in between. Wonders if  _ this _ will be a first, or a last, or something else entirely. 

“We don’t have to play if you don’t want to,” Kuroo says gently, ever so considerate. 

Kei shakes his head, turning to look at Kuroo. “No, I want to,” he says, and finds that he means it. “It’s just been a while, is all.” 

Kuroo raises an eyebrow in question, but doesn’t push. “Alright. Oh, I forgot to ask, what position did you used to play?” 

“Middle,” Kei says, and Kuroo lights up.

“Really? Me too!” he says, eyes wide and childlike in a way that Kei has never seen before. 

“Yeah, I know,” Kei blurts without thinking, and by the time he realizes the damage is already done.

Kuroo opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “Wait, what? How do you know that?” Kuroo shouts, running after Kei. 

“He came to watch one of our games one time,” Akaashi answers, and Kei shoots him a glare. Akaashi just shrugs, spinning the volleyball in his hands. “I wasn’t aware it was a secret.” 

Kuroo smiles, as bright as usual but softer, shier. “Did you really?” he asks, biting his lip. 

Kei sighs, feels the blood rush to his face and curses Akaashi. “Yeah. The one against Nohebi.” 

Kuroo’s smile grows, brilliant and blinding, and Kei looks away. “You are so cute.”

“No, I’m not,” Kei protests, feeling light. 

“You  _ are _ ,” Kuroo says teasingly, sidling up to Kei’s side. 

“I’m not.”

“It’s  _ so _ cute, though,” Bokuto says from the side, “I wish Akaashi could watch one of  _ my  _ games.” Kei sees Akaashi facepalm in his periphery.

“Shut up,” Kei snaps, elbowing Kuroo when he tries to plant a kiss on Kei’s cheek. Kuroo bursts into that hideous cackle of his, and Kei burns red. 

“Thanks for backing me up, bro,” Kuroo says, fistbumping Bokuto. 

Kei throws the volleyball at Kuroo. “Can you shut up so we can play?” 

Kuroo catches the ball just before it can smack him in the face. “Bro. He’s so cute,” he says dreamily, and Kei can’t decide whether to combust or sink straight through the earth. Suddenly, all his anxiety about volleyball is gone, replaced instead with mortifying embarrassment. And Kei thinks that maybe this was Kuroo’s plan all along—wouldn’t be surprised if Kuroo was just  _ that _ perceptive,  _ that  _ considerate. 

Kei shakes his head. “Just serve the fucking ball,” he says finally, and with a devilish grin, Kuroo does. 

  
  


❊

  
  


They play until the sun is long gone, having disappeared below the horizon an hour or so ago. The moon shines high and bright in the dark expanse of the night, its light falling beautifully across Kuroo’s face beside him, and not for the first time that night Kei is rendered breathless from more than just volleyball. 

Kei’s body aches pleasantly, his fingers throbbing ever so slightly. He’s out of practice—a year without playing volleyball has left him a little slower, a little weaker. The other three are leagues ahead of him in terms of technique and ability, but Kuroo is endlessly patient and Bokuto is happy to play against anyone and anything with arms. It goes much better than Kei expected—save for a few incidents in which he may or may not have accidentally caught a ball to the face, but otherwise enjoyable.

“Did you have fun?” Kuroo asks as they’re walking home, swinging their intertwined hands in giant arcs as they walk. Fireflies dance in the distance, their light pulsing and fading in the darkness, ephemeral. 

“Yeah,” Kei says, “I did.” He laughs lowly, surprised by how much he means it. Akiteru would die out of happiness or shock—maybe both. 

Kuroo nods. “Good,” he says, the corners of his mouth pulling into a satisfied smile. “I’m glad.” 

The fireflies glow—and for a moment, so does Kei.

  
  


❊

“I love you,” Kuroo whispers into the crook of Kei’s neck, one day when the summer glare shines diamonds against his sweat-slicked skin. Kei’s forearms burn; his fingers ache. 

He stills. Hears the thump of the volleyball hitting the ground.

“Don’t say that,” he breathes, and Kuroo pulls away to look at him, eyes searching. Kei looks away before he can find what he’s looking for, and doesn’t see the way his brow furrows. 

“Why not? It’s true.” 

“For now,” Kei shoots back, with more bitterness than he’d intended.

Kuroo falls quiet, and Kei curls away from him, letting their arms slide past each other. The thoughts that have been haunting him since Tokyo spill to the forefront of his mind, and it must show in his expression because Kuroo grabs his hand and says, “I can still love you in Tokyo.”

“You can’t know that,” Kei says, pulling his face away. He can’t look at Kuroo, or he’ll never say what he needs to say. “People drift apart, fall out of love. Meet new people.” 

“Kei, look at me,” he says, brushing the tears from Kei’s cheek. Kei looks at him reluctantly. “I plan to love you for as long as you let me, okay? This doesn’t have to end. Not now, not yet. Please don’t push me away,” Kuroo says, voice breaking, and Kei can’t stand the look on Kuroo’s face so he pulls Kuroo into a kiss, slow and sweet like a promise. And the whirlwind in his head slows, fading gently away as he lets Kuroo’s words swallow him whole. 

  
  


❊

  
  


“This is such a bad idea,” Kei says, grinding his hips up against Kuroo’s. Kuroo groans, broken and beautiful, and all Kei wants is to make him make that sound again. 

“Good thing I love bad ideas,” Kuroo breathes, trailing kisses down his neck and towards his chest. He pauses right before getting to Kei’s nipple, hard and straining against the thin material of his shirt, sitting up abruptly. “Tsukki—” Kuroo starts, but Kei cuts him off by leaning to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Kei,” he corrects, “you can call me Kei.” 

Kuroo smiles, eyes hooded and cheeks dusted red. “Kei,” he starts again, flushing harder at the sound of Kei’s name from his lips, “we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Kei yanks Kuroo into a kiss, hard and fast and burning. “I want to,” he says when they part for air, “so don’t you  _ dare _ stop.” 

Kuroo grins, a little devious, a little dangerous, and lifts Kei’s shirt over his head. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he says, and doesn’t stop—not until Kei is shivering and shaking, white hot pleasure clouding his mind and leaving him with only the thought of Kuroo’s lips on him, Kuroo’s lips, Kuroo, Kuroo,  _ Kuroo.  _

“Tetsurou,” he says later, when all’s done and done and they’re collapsed on Kuroo’s bed, limbs tangled and weak. “You can call me Tetsurou.” 

  
  


❊

  
  


Kei is drowning. 

He doesn’t know why or how he got here—all he knows is the push and pull of water against his skin, spilling into his mouth and nose and suffocating him. He thrashes in the water, eyes pressed tightly shut as he fights to break free. Suddenly, the storm calms, the water going still around him. It ebbs and flows, swirling gentle circles, coaxing him to relax. He surges up through the surface and into the open air, gasping. Just as he thinks it’s finally over, he opens his eyes to see an inky dark sea, climbing. A wave crashes into him with the force of a thousand doubts, pinning him under. It whispers his name, sinister, and pushes him into an abyss of loneliness. 

Kei wakes, gasping for air. 

The morning light streams through the windows, casting slats of shadows on the tangled sheets. White, and not his. Kei looks over to the figure sleeping soundly next to him, and thinks—about life, about love, about Tokyo and everything it means. Thinks about that three hour, four hundred mile train ride, that one hundred dollar ticket, about distance and time and everything in between, and thinks that Kuroo loves him—will still love him even when he’s three hours and four hundred miles away. 

Kei looks at Kuroo—watches as his ribs rise and fall with each breath, a string of spit dripping onto the pillow below. Watches, and thinks. Thinks that Kuroo looks like a Greek tragedy with the golden sunlight diffracting through the blinds, falling fatally in iridescent streaks across his cheekbones. Thinks that it’s called a tragedy for a reason, and no one ever walks out of a tragedy unscathed. And Kei thinks, and thinks, and wishes he could know.

  
  


❊

  
  


Time slips through Kei’s grasp no matter how hard he tries to dole it out in fractions, to savor it in pieces and make sure there’s always some left over. No, it doesn’t matter how hard he tries—time waits for no one, and the summer is stolen straight out from under Kei in the blink of an eye, the turn of a face. Somehow, forty five days becomes five becomes three becomes one, and Kei can feel the panic rising, the tide cresting. 

Kei hasn’t seen Kuroo since nearly a week ago—Kuroo has been busy packing, and Kei politely declines Kuroo’s invitation to hang out while he does so. Watching Kuroo pack would make the reality of Kuroo’s departure too real. Kei thinks about Kuroo leaving—leaving him—and feels weak in the worst way. And all Kei can think about is how much he can’t let someone leave him again, not now, not like this—and maybe that’s why Kuroo’s last couple messages remain unread.

Maybe that’s why when Kuroo comes to say goodbye, Kei doesn’t open the door.

  
  


❊

**dumb cat [9:22 am]**

Im here

Kei?

Are u there?

Kei watches Kuroo lift his phone to his ear from his bedroom window, and hears his own phone ring in his hand. He lets it ring, shrill and empty and overwhelming, and Kei picks up in a blur of less than rational decisions if only to get it to stop ringing. 

“Kei?” Kuroo starts, and Kei hates the way his voice crackles, distorted by the phone. “Are you home?” 

Kei closes his eyes. Says, “Yeah,” and pretends he doesn’t notice the tears stinging against his lids.

“I’m here.”

Kei lets his eyes flutter open for a devastating second, and peeks at Kuroo from under his lashes. “I know.” 

A pause. Kei watches Kuroo shift on the front step, confused. “Kei?” 

And Kei can’t help the tears that spill over—can’t help the sadness that overcomes his heart and holds it hostage, and suddenly he’s got the worst case of stockholm syndrome because Kei snaps, “Don’t call me that,” and lets the anger rage his tears away. Lets the anger rage his fears away.

Kuroo freezes. “What’s wrong?”

_ Everything _ , Kei thinks, but he knows it isn’t fair. Says instead, “This was a bad idea,” and knows it is still not fair. 

“What was?” Kuroo asks, innocent, but Kei can hear his grasp slipping, catching desperately at the ends of a thread uncatchable. 

“Everything. Us.” Kei gestures wildly in the confines of his room, as if Kuroo might hear the motions from through the phone. He is sure that he doesn’t.

Kuroo pauses, and it is telling. “ _ Our  _ bad idea,” he says gently, and Kei laughs, bitter and mocking.

“Still a bad idea.”

“You don’t really think that,” Kuroo says, and for the first time, he does not try to mask the hurt in his voice. 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Kei bites out, angry because he knows Kuroo knows too much and Kei feels he doesn’t know enough, will never know enough. 

“I know enough,” Kuroo shoots back, but it sounds uncertain in a way Kei isn’t used to Kuroo sounding. It feels wrong coming out of the receiver on Kei’s end, as if it weren’t Kuroo at all but someone else entirely, and Kei thinks it's a tragedy that he’s made Kuroo sound that way. Thinks it’s a tragedy, and doesn’t realize it can be anything else. Thinks it has to end this way—was always going to end this way. 

“I don’t need you,” Kei says, and makes it true. 

“No,” Kuroo whispers, so broken and Kei almost takes it all back, almost lets himself have this good thing, almost— “I guess you don’t.” 

“And you don’t need me,” Kei finishes, voice cracking painfully. 

Kei watches Kuroo shake his head. “I need to go,” he says instead, but hesitates on the doorstep, brow furrowed as if searching for the words to make Kei change his mind. In the end, Kuroo decides against it, muttering a soft, “Goodbye, Tsukishima”—short and sweet yet so,  _ so _ bitter—and hangs up.

And Kei watches him go, back fading into the light, and tells himself it was always going to end this way. 

  
  
  
  
  


**iii. fall**

_ (& i am sure / that when we love / we are better than ourselves) _

  
  


Autumn comes in a breeze like a breath of fresh air, sighing beautifully into the slowly dissipating heat. The leaves crack and turn colors, bright reds and oranges and yellows, floating through the air and onto the ground, a whispered farewell. It’s a little surreal, a little too real, Kei thinks, walking once more to the bus stop at the end of the road, this time no longer for the first time but just one of many times on his way to the last time. 

Kei sees Kuroo everywhere—in the stray cat he passes on his way to school, in the honey eyes of a stranger on the bus, in the clap of a volleyball hitting the ground. Kei still sees Kuroo’s smile, hears his laugh, and he can’t help but wonder if Kuroo is smiling in Tokyo. If he’s laughing that hideous laugh and making some other bitter mouthed boy fall in love for the first time.

  
  


❊

  
  


Kuroo calls him, a couple times. Kei doesn’t pick up. 

(He thinks of blocking Kuroo’s number. He decides against it, if only because he thinks maybe he deserves to be forced to listen to his phone ring, endlessly into the night.)

Two weeks in, Kuroo stops calling at all. 

  
  


❊

  
  


It’s not a matter of needing, Kei realizes later, when he knows just a little bit more, knows just a little bit better. He’s sixteen now and he’s a little bit happier, a little bit sadder, with a boy-shaped hole in his life that bleeds red and bright and dangerous in the worst way. Kei didn’t see it, not at first—he was too young, too angry, too scared. But the honey is only so thick, and the past six months are finally impacting—and Kei can finally look back and see all the things he couldn’t see, know all the things he didn’t know, and know all the ways that he went so horribly wrong. 

Still, Kei knows that he does not need Kuroo Tetsurou—after all, he is still standing, still breathing. Was fine before, will be fine after. But knowing this is little comfort when Kei still looks to his side sometimes, expecting a warm presence, only to find a startling absence that aches with each passing moment. 

It’s not a matter of needing, Kei realizes, it’s just a matter of choosing—choosing something better, choosing to  _ be  _ better. Choosing to stay when staying means diving off the edge and into something terrifying and beautiful—or choosing to turn tail and run, back to safety, back to just  _ fine _ and  _ good enough _ , scared that better means the possibility of worse. And it’s not a matter of not needing, Kei thinks—it’s a matter of leaving. He realizes this with the image of Kuroo’s back to him sharp in his mind, clear as day, and thinks of Kuroo, hundreds of miles away, and knows that Kuroo wasn’t the one who left. 

Kei realizes, and thinks it’s too late.

  
  


❊

  
  


School feels incredibly dull without the constant threat of Kuroo’s teasing whispers, or worse, Bokuto’s oblivious yelling. 

Kei doesn’t dare think that he might miss it, because that’s a sort of admission that threatens his stony reputation in a fashion more direct than kissing Kuroo Tetsurou  _ with tongue _ . Instead, he lets the silence hurt silently, unexplained. It hurts better that way. 

Kuroo leaks into his thoughts anyway, unsolicited as ever, but Kei’s only ever managed to deny him once. Kei’s never really been one for daydreaming—always too focused, too attentive—but now the low drone of the teacher’s voice makes for the perfect backdrop of white noise, and Kei slips into some wild reimagining of the past six months and everything he could’ve done differently. It’s masochistic in the most indulgent sort of way—the only kind of indulgence Kei can ever allow himself. 

And when class is over, Kei doesn’t hear the bell, or the teacher’s redundant dismissal. Instead, Kuroo’s last words to him— _ goodbye, Tsukishima _ —play lazily on repeat, somnambulant.

“Tsukishima.”

The voice stirs Kei from his stupor, and Kei turns to look at his friend. 

“Yes?” Kei answers, but he’s still not entirely there. His vision is coated in a strange glaze, shimmering and ethereal, rendering everything in a dream-like haze.

Akaashi peers at him curiously. “Are you okay?” 

_ No, _ Kei thinks, glancing around the empty classroom, but what he says instead is, “Do you like concerts?”

  
  


❊

  
  


There’s a postcard addressed to Kei in the mail one October evening, the paper heavy in Kei’s hands as he flips it over. It’s a painting of two persimmons, bright orange and weighted, dangling from the spindly branches of an implied persimmon tree. And Kei doesn’t need to read the postmark to know who it’s from—doesn’t need to read the message to know what it says. Instead, he carries it inside and throws it haphazardly onto his desk before collapsing into a heap on the floor, silent and shaking and so, so sorry.

  
  


❊

  
  


_ The persimmons are ripe now, but fall isn’t as pretty here in Tokyo _

_ -K. T. _

_ (P. S. I still love you) _

  
  


❊

  
  


The skype call only has to ring three times before Yamaguchi picks up, grainy image of his face in shitty loading pixel by pixel Kei’s screen. 

“ _ Tsukki, _ ” Yamaguchi greets, and Kei resents the slight robotic trill in his voice, the way his image lags a second behind the sound of his words—indications that his best friend is miles away and out of reach. Kei wishes the distance away with a shake of his head. 

“Kuroo sent me a postcard.” 

Yamaguchi’s smile wavers. The breath he sucks in is barely audible, but Kei still catches it. “ _ What did he say? _ ”

Kei schools his voice into something impenetrable. “That fall isn’t as pretty in Tokyo.”

That tears a laugh from Yamaguchi. “ _ That’s probably true. _ ” Yamaguchi’s expression softens, and Kei braces himself for whatever’s coming next. “ _ How do you feel about it? _ ”

Kei shrugs. “I think he’s stupid.” 

“ _ Maybe _ .” 

“He is.” 

Yamaguchi taps his bottom lip. Kei already knows what he’s going to say, but he winces anyway. “ _ So are you, sometimes.”  _

Kei looks down at his keyboard, and catches sight of the dinosaur sticker Kuroo had stuck on the hand rest. “Yeah. Sometimes.” 

“ _ He won’t hold it against you. _ ”

Kei clicks his tongue. “He should.”

Yamaguchi levels him with a look that makes Kei want to reach into the screen and wipe it off his face. It’s the same look that Yamaguchi gave him on his last day in Yokohama, when Kei had told Yamaguchi that he’d understand if Yamaguchi stopped texting eventually. “ _ But he won’t, because he cares about you. He’ll understand.” _

Kei covers his face with his hands. Takes a deep, miserable breath. “When did you get so wise.”

Yamaguchi laughs, and Skype shreds the sound into slivers of what Kei used to hear all the time but the tightness in Kei’s chest still yields. 

  
  


❊

  
  


**kei [12:38 am]**

_ you’re so fucking stupid _

_ i think we should talk _

_ i’m coming to tokyo next weekend. meet me at koishikawa on sunday at 7, if you want _

**kei [12:52 am]**

_ i’m sorry _

  
  


❊

  
  


It’s too hot to be the middle of November, Kei thinks, as he trudges towards the train station. The persimmon trees have finally begun to ripen, their orange weights sagging teasingly from lithe branches. Kei still passes the one in Kuroo’s backyard, sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly in need of a good cry. Passes it now on the way to the train station, and resigns himself to trespassing to pick four bullet shaped persimmons that he wraps in day-old newspaper and drops to the bottom of a plastic bag tied around his wrist. 

By the time Kei gets to Korakuen train station, the sun is starting to dip beneath the skyline and he’s got angry red lines printed into the flesh of his wrist. He pulls the bag over his hand and passes it over the other. When he gets to the gardens, both of his wrists are adorned with red circlets that pulse with the quickening pace of his heart. 

He’s exactly four minutes early, but Kuroo is already there, hunched over the stone rail of a tiny stone bridge, watching something that Kei can’t see. And Kei realizes then that he is not ready. And maybe, that’s the whole problem; Kei is never ready. Kei is not ready, but he doubts he’ll ever be so he approaches with as much confidence he can muster and says,

“Kuroo-san.” 

Kuroo looks up, startled, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Kei passes the bag of persimmons back to his other wrist. “Tsukki,” Kuroo says in turn, then winces, and the look of doubt on his face is enough to make Kei’s stomach drop. 

Kuroo has enough self respect not to correct himself, Kei thinks, but he still finds himself blurting, “Let’s walk,” anyway, before Kuroo can try. He relaxes visibly in Kei’s periphery, if not all the way.

Kuroo lets Kei lead the way, and as much as it makes his skin crawl to have Kuroo lingering just behind him, form barely in the edges of his line of sight, he knows that it has to be this way. That he has to be the one to take the first step. That after everything, this is only fair. 

But Kei can’t quite work up the nerve to say everything he has to stay, so instead he breaks the uneasy silence with a lame, “How are you?” 

Kuroo hums pleasantly, and Kei spares a glance behind him to gauge Kuroo’s expression. 

“Good,” he says, after a shaky breath that Kei acknowledges by averting his gaze. If Kuroo notices, he doesn’t mention it. “I’m good. Busy, but good,” he repeats, as if he’s scared Kei might not believe him. 

It hurts a little, but Kei has no room to talk. “That’s good,” Kei mutters blandly, and resists the urge to facepalm from his own stupidity. 

“And you?” Kuroo asks, ever the savior, “Akaashi told me you gave him the concert tickets. Why didn’t you go?” 

And as much as Kei wants to hear an accusation in Kuroo’s words, there is none to speak of. Kuroo is genuinely curious, he realizes with a start, and wishes it comes as a surprise. Kei’s blood boils at his own cowardice. “I wanted to go with you,” he admits, and hopes it sounds like an apology. 

Kuroo laughs, but it sounds sad. “I would have gone with you, if you’d asked.” 

Somehow, Kuroo’s offer—however hypothetical—only makes the guilt in the back of Kei’s throat swell. Tears well in Kei’s eyes, and he bites his lip to keep them from spilling over. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

A yellowed leaf drifts into Kei’s field of vision. 

“For not asking. For not picking up, when you called. For everything that came before that.” 

Kuroo accepts the admission without a word. He’s so quiet that, if it weren’t for the gentle crunch of leaves under his feet, Kei would have thought Kuroo had simply disappeared. Does think it, for a panicked second, and turns abruptly to make sure Kuroo is still there. 

Kuroo stops, then. “I’m sorry too.” 

Kei blinks, bewildered. “Why?” 

Kuroo shakes his head. “I meant what I wrote to you,” he says, “and I meant it when I said it to you. I thought that would be enough.” He looks away, and it sounds so innocent that Kei can’t keep the tears from falling down his face. “I’m sorry that it wasn’t enough. Don’t cry, Kei,” Kuroo whispers, and he lifts a hand as if he wants to reach over and brush away Kei’s tears, but he abandons the motion halfway through. 

Kei stills, and for a terrifying moment it’s like he can’t move at all. His heart wills him forward, and yet his mind reels him ever backwards—an unending struggle that leaves Kei stagnant, standing forever in the in between. There, he sinks, knee-deep in the skeletons of all his lives unlived, and Kei finally realizes what Akiteru meant all those months ago. 

His heart lurches, and he covers Kuroo’s hand with his own. 

“It  _ is  _ enough,” Kei insists, and it  _ is.  _ “It  _ is. _ Stop being stupid. I was an idiot. _ ”  _

“I thought I was the idiot?” Kuroo asks, lip curling into a hesitant half-smile, and Kei can’t stand it. 

“Shut up. Kiss me?” And this time it’s Kei asking, breathless and wanting, looking at Kuroo like there’s no one he’d rather look at, asking like there’s nothing he’d rather ask. 

And Kei may never know all there is to know, but kissing Kuroo Tetsurou as the world outside blooms into a thousand colors he’s never seen before and will never see again, Kei thinks that maybe, he doesn’t need to. Maybe, knowing  _ this— _ the feeling of Kuroo’s hands in his hair, his lips against Kei’s, smiling and whispering  _ I love you _ like he’ll never be able to say it enough _ — _ maybe, this is enough. 

And Kei thinks, and thinks, and knows.

**Author's Note:**

> we're just going to pretend that the timeline for this fic isn't completely absolutely fucked and that japanese schools start in the fall and japanese colleges have really late entrance exams, because i am god here and i said so.
> 
> i actually wrote most of this fic back in december of 2018 and then left it alone for 8 months and finished it in a burst in august of this year. its so cheesy and i kind of cringe reading it now, but if you're into it then im glad!! if u liked this follow me on twitter and tumblr (@tetsuwus on both) bc i've got a lot of fic ideas in my brain that i may or may not write but i sure will tweet about them!! 
> 
> until next time,  
tuna


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